


DMY: DREAM CASE

by kuill, kurenix



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Babies, Bad Pickup Lines, Bad investigative procedure, Ballroom dances, Biting, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Campy, Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Combat, Descriptions of wounds, Drugs, Emetophobia, Family, Gen, Guns, Hemophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, Interrogation, Marketplace, Murder, Name Puns, Poisoning, Police Chase, Police and thief, Puppy Love, Pyjamas - Silk, Riddles, Squad adventures, Suspicious warehouses, Thieving shenanigans, Torture, Violence, Wounds, child trafficking, disguises, slight descriptions of violence, tags to be updated as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:48:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 126,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuill/pseuds/kuill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurenix/pseuds/kurenix
Summary: September Redmond's an up-and-coming detective with fearless determination and no respect for the rules. When phantom thief Monday Blue drops a dream case into his lap, Redmond must decide whether the dirty criminal could ever be more than a friend — or if throwing in his lot with this vanishing, grinning rascal would be biting off way more than he can chew.--Original work, collab between Kurenix and Kuill!! :>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fic borne out of a long, long roleplay between us. Heavily inspired by Rachel Kim's amazing animation [Diamond Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRpiBvwKX6c)! 
> 
> We tried our best to smooth over the plot in the re-write (that took way longer than the actual roleplay itself) because we were 300% winging the plot while roleplaying HAHA
> 
> We were just interested in the character interactions at the time of writing, so we hope you'll stick around for that too! Hope you have as much fun reading about our dumbass kids as we had writing this. :)
> 
> Check out updates, fanart, bonus content at [@DMYVerse](https://twitter.com/DMYverse) on Twitter!

He's sure this is a dream.

Warmth lingers on his waist, his cheek, inside his veins. As shadows move from gold-filled glasses to the rooftops, where they take the shape of a man, tinted by the navy sky. 

There isn't a star to be seen. But he knows, if he can catch up to the man who moves like water, he will see them hiding under the man's soft fringe,

deep in those blue, blue eyes.

And so, like the myriad of other times September knows his dream's only a dream, he gives chase. Because, as dreams go, there are rules that must be followed. Because there really is nothing else to do but follow that slight, retreating figure. 

Because he's sure he knows that man beyond just his name and face, like the echo of a friend long gone —

  
  


"All units report," his radio crackles insistently on the desk. "Robbery at Pewter Mall. Suspect is not armed but backup is imperative…”

Sunlight streams into his apartment. He's covered in sweat. Breathless and disoriented.

Ah, it's Monday.

And just a dream, as it has been for the past few months. 

September's first instinct is to sigh and go back to sleep because his team's never been good on foot. But the alternative? — being haunted by the figure through a thankless, mind-numbing day pushing papers down at the precinct.

He grabs his badge and gun, his radio and the brown coat from the couch, and hurries.

  
  


When the team gets there the whole store is gutted. And amidst the empty shelves and overturned counters, the apparent thief is sitting pretty right next to the cash register, 

stars shining deep in his blue, blue eyes.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes."

The remark must be directed at none other than Officer September Redmond. The officer’s normally the first to strike back at insolent thieves who mouth off for no good reason, but this time he’s well and truly tongue tied. 

_ It’s him. It’s him, but this isn’t a dream. _

_ Is it? _

It takes a nudge from one of his squadmates before September says,  "Put your hands on your head or we will use force. You’re surrounded."

“Am I?"

The thief raises his arms above his head, snapping his fingers — 

— everyone’s gazes follow in expectation, with bated breath, for the next trick of a thief who’d made a fool of the sophisticated security systems and magicked away three million in gold and sparkling things —

— and he slides right under September’s legs, darting down the mall corridor. 

September’s the only one looking down. The only one who sees the thief’s grin widen as he makes his escape.

"Stop!"

The chase is on. 

Members of the public scatter across the mall, thronging against other officers from another team stationed around the exits. This thief has no way out.

Or so the squad thinks, because the thief is still tearing towards the escalator to the second floor, clearing the crowd below in one death-defying leap off the railing. September catches the faintest sight of him just before he vanishes into the stores beyond. 

And so it goes, appearing and disappearing in the most impossible way until his chasers thin out, slowly but surely, and there’s only September left.

The thief’s standing  in front of a large window with no latch —  no, it actually feels like the thief’s  _ waiting _ for him —  sunlight streaming in, his whole figure in shadow. 

A dead end.

“This will be my last warning. Hands up where I can see them, or I'll shoot."

"Okay, okay. Here they are, in plain sight."

The thief casually raises his arms. His smile widens.

"Could I have the pleasure of your name, good officer?"

No more funny business. September’s hand drops to the cuffs at his belt.

"Hey, hey, hey, no need to rush. I just like to know the name of who's tying me up in the back of a car, that's all." He giggles around his eyemask. "Ahh, what am I thinking, it's on your nametag. Redmond? Mr. Redmond. May I call you Mr. Red?"

The cop doesn’t slow his approach. "Where did you hide the stolen goods?"

"Oh, you'll find them, Mr. Red, don't worry. I couldn't possibly wear all of them myself. But I'm afraid I must be going now." 

"You're not going anywhere —"

And suddenly, the thief's right up in September's face. Breathing his air, staring right into his eyes.

Still smiling, bright as a summer afternoon.

"September Red, hmm?" His mouth is so close, September can feel his every word. "Call me Monday. Monday Blue."

He kisses the cop quick on the lips. And before September can even react he launches himself at the window —

      — which falls away in one solid piece, carefully lasered the day before and propped back into place — 

                         — and Monday rolls down the sloped roof of the next building, disappearing behind its walls.

September leans out of the window, face heated, teeth gritted, searching vainly.

He'd played them, completely played them all.

Monday Blue.

He shoots a message to his team, quickly instructing them to find the jewellery — which they’ll find in due time, draped around the bewildered customers and store owners in Monday’s wake and on the passersby outside the mall — all the while wondering where he's heard the name before.

And as Monday Blue walks through the crowd, removing his eyemask, turning his jacket inside out, pulling a beanie from his waistband (all those good disguise things) a breathless smile grows on his face once again.

September Red and Monday Blue.

And so the game begins.


	2. Chapter 2

Sixteen hours of searching and still no Monday Blue. The sun’s already coming up.

Ah, Tuesday blues.

September slumps on the desk. There’s still some shuteye to be caught before the rest of the task force officially reports for duty…

But at that very moment, his phone rings!

"God…" He fumbles for it and brings it to his ear. His voice is rough. "It’s September, go."

_"Oh no, sweetie, it's actually July. Go back to sleep, you sound exhausted.”_

September awakens with a jolt and a clatter of stationery.

“What's the date again," he asks slowly, wedging the phone with his shoulder and face to trace the call on his laptop.

“You're…" his voice wavers very carefully. "Monday. Monday Blue?"

_"Ah, you remember me. Anyway, It's July 30th. Or is it the 31st? It's a Tuesday. So. September Red. Nice to finally have a proper conversation."_

"It’s Redmond." The call's from a payphone. He'll need to dig harder to locate the specific one. He stalls. "Didn't think I'd be able to talk to you again, Monday. You have a strange MO."

_"Aww, Septie, I couldn't help myself. I just missed you so much."_

“It’s September.” Unfazed, he asks brusquely, “What do you want, Mr Blue.”

The voice on the other end laughs a little. _"What do I want? That's a good question. What do criminals really want? When is it ever worth taking that kind of risk?"_

"You tell me. It's my job asking you these things. If you hadn’t robbed 3 million in gold I’d think you were treating this as a joke."

A location pops up on September’s screen — the corner on Mattis Street. He grabs his badge and gun, throws on his coat, and hurries.

 _“Mm, I could be. Is that what investigative protocol is for you, Septie? Assuming all your cases do extremely dangerous things for kicks?"_ Another tinkling laugh. _“Don't worry, Mr Officer, I do have a motive. But where's the fun in telling you right away?"_

September knows better than to take the bait. "My cases tend to steal small things and keep the loot. Because they want the cash. But you seem like a well-learned guy. Nice. Polite. Not in need of money.” He pauses, looks both ways. “Handsome.” Crosses the road. “Why would you be a thief?"

One block away. He breaks into an easy jog.

_“Excuse you, I totally need money. And shiny things are nice.”_

“If you needed the money maybe you should’ve robbed a bank."

 _"Been there, done that. But it’s hard, you know? Everyone robs banks nowadays. People get prepared. And I need to get_ creative.”

The payphone booth comes into view round the corner.

 _“You didn't find all the jewellery, did you?"_ asks Monday Blue.

“I don’t suppose you’re wearing it. The last missing pendant."

_"Well, why don't you come over and find out?"_

September does.

And he sees the phone, dangling off its hook, mouthpiece hanging conveniently beside a small radio. Across the street the doors to Mattis Bank are wide open. Sirens wail in the distance. Back at the police station, the phone lines are all tangled up with reports of a robbery, vaults empty, culprit nowhere to be seen.

For a few long moments September struggles to wrap his head around this. Around everything. He picks the radio up, tests its weight, speaks into the receiver.

"Mr Monday Blue. I assume this is your doing. Didn't you say _everyone_ robs banks, why're you following the crowd now?”

_"You think it was me? God, I’m insulted! I just heard there was something going on, and decided to give you some entertainment along the way. Also, now that your squad’s been called to the crime scene, you won't have as much time to look for me."_

September can do nothing else but gaze at the blue uniforms swarming the gutted-out bank. He’s this close to shaking his head in disbelief. “You're really something special.”

Monday merely replies, _"That radio’s gonna stop working in thirty seconds, by the way."_

"What a waste of a good radio." A pause. “Tell me, Monday. How'd you get my number?"

_"Like you said. I have a strange MO."_

"…You're evading."

His fingers tighten around the radio.

“Monday."

_“Mm?"_

A longer pause as September struggles for words.

“I'll find you."

It’s gritted out like a threat. _I’ll have you locked up._

One final _krttz_ and the radio goes dead. September doesn't even bother testing it, just slips it in his pocket and rubs his face. What an ordeal.

Just as he walks out, the radio beeps. Again. And again. And again.

A bomb? He barely manages to fling the radio away and towards the empty street as it hisses with electricity and spits out a small puff of smoke. Now it dies for good, completely unusable, not even to look for prints.

September sighs and retrieves the ruined radio anyway. Evidence is evidence. And he regrets not going home yesterday because there is such a long week in front of him.

Some distance away but not very far, Monday sighs. "Man, I totally wanted the last word.”

But Septie deserves his turn sometimes. From where Monday sits on the rooftop, he drops his own radio into the dumpster below — crackling and smoking as it goes.

 

Mattis Bank was robbed by someone and September has a pretty good idea who it’s not. From the MO, he can tell it’s far from the work of a veteran like Monday — hastily burned doors, jammed locks, broken CCTVs. A grandiose affair, impossible for one person; all the noise, none of the style. Unfortunately, the team on the case is convinced the Mattis case is linked to the robbery at Pewter, and September can’t simply waltz up to them and tell them _‘Look, the jewel thief is too smart for that.’_

So yes, the case hasn’t been assigned to him, but September’s here anyway — being team leader means he can delegate away his work (free up some time by shoving the paperwork to his interns) and hang around the bank instead. Under this sun September soon is baking in his blue uniform trying to fit in with the patrol team, but he’s got a hunch Monday might show up.

Instead, a pink haired boy comes ambling down the street, stopping in front of the bank. And just gazes at it.

Does he need help? Is he okay? A few moments of contemplation later, September finally walks over. "Sir? Can I help you?"

“Nah.”

The boy lazily flicks his eyes at him — a flat, uninterested grey — before turning back to the bank. He exhales loudly. "Whoever did this did a shit job."

September blinks, keeping his voice civil, clueless. "What makes you say so, sir?"

"You’re a cop, right? You should fucking know."

“They don’t release all the information to us, sir.” Which isn’t untrue, because it’s not his case and his captain will throw a fit if he meddles in another case _again._ “It's uh, confidential."

"Why do you keep calling me sir?"

"It's protocol, sir." September moves to stand at attention.

The boy wrinkles his nose. "That’s fucking weird."

He ambles off. Conrad District has its fair share of weirdos and this fellow, even with his hair looking like a highlighter factory disaster, may very well be one of them. September’s ready to shrug off the encounter and focus on more important things, but the boy casts another meaningful look at the bank again.

"Wanna know who did it?"

Now September really doesn’t know what to think. But weirdo or not, a lead’s a lead. It’ll save everyone lots of late nights down the line. "Yes, sir.”

September walks up to the strange boy. That’s usually a good litmus test, in September’s experience. The cowardly quail, the jokers run. But this boy doesn’t flinch — just sizes September up with that same lazy stare and starts walking away from the bank.

Doesn’t even spare another glance. Clearly he expects September to follow.

_Maybe this kid is connected to Monday somehow._

They walk for a few blocks without so much as eye contact or conversation.

Their destination’s a cafe on the street corner — _Cafe Time!_ Is written on the front glass in a cheery flourish, and the boy goes straight in like he’s going to order a drink. September’s right on his heels, taking in the chic decor, the pastel furniture, and one other person busy behind the coffee maker. But rather than place an order the pink-haired boy simply hoists himself on the counter, casual as anything.

"You gotta buy a drink first."

September feels like he's being fleeced.

"How do I know you won't pull a fast one on me? Sir," he adds, aware it sounds like an afterthought.

"I keep telling you, Nightnight, you gotta be nice to the guys who come in here or they won’t stick around for cake after." It's the barista, his long black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. He smiles gently at September. "Especially if they’re cute.”

Oh, there’s definitely something else beneath that innocent grin.

“Sorry about Fortnight. What can I get you, mister?"

The barista comes up behind the pink haired boy, so little proximity between them that there’s no way they’re just casual colleagues. Not that September’s one to judge, but they don’t look like a… pair, whatever that demands of people as eccentric as them.

_Fortnight? Really?_

"Well, sir," September says to the kid, still feeling kind of in over his head, "Would _you_ like something?"

"I can make my own drink, I run this fucking joint," says Fortnight. "But we need the business. Now tell Mr Yesterday what you want."

September just takes a deep breath. Meeting three days in two days is a lot to take in.

"Uh.... Can I get a, uh, uuuhhhhhh…” (There’s so many kinds of coffees in here.) Fortnight’s gaze deadens a little (Seriously, what’s a Maple Infused Irish Java Coffee With A Mandarin Orange Twist?) and amazingly, Yesterday is still smiling, bright and gentle and patient. “I’ll just have a long black. Please."

With a happy chirp of “Sure thing!” Yesterday bustles absentmindedly from one counter to the next, enjoying himself as September gallantly admires the very bizarre collection of cakes sitting in the display fridge, pretending Fortnight’s gaze on him doesn’t weigh a metric ton.

"Here you go, mister...?"

"Redmond, sir."

"Mister Redmond. Cute name! Kinda suits you, I think." Yesterday rambles on, setting a mug of cocoa beside Fortnight. "And here's yours, Nightnight. Do you want marshmallows in it or is it a chocolate fudge day?"

"What do you think I am, five?" says Fortnight, downing the entire mug at one shot. He emerges with a milk moustache and reflexively wipes it off with his forearm.

Fortnight edges over a little to give Yesterday some room in the booth seat. He sighs, then says, "So. Redmond. They shown you the security cam footage yet?"

"Only once, sir. My captain might let us see it again later today if he gets clearance, sir. You mentioned you knew who was behind it—”

“Fortnight knows,” grins Yesterday.

“I _only_ know there's been someone new around these parts the past few days. Never seen them before. Looks like they're casing the joint."

Someone new? Was it Monday, or was there someone else beside him? September says, "Think they’re linked to the Pewter Mall robbery?"

"Don't know about that. But it’s real suspicious," Fortnight finishes his cocoa with a jerk of the neck and tosses the mug into the nearby sink, just soft enough not to shatter. He’s clearly practiced. "So it's this guy — pretty sure it's a guy. Kinda short. Skinny. Never wearing the same clothes. Sometimes even changes his hair. But I swear it's the one guy." Fortnight sniffs, rubs his nose. "Was walking past the bank earlier before clocking in. And I saw the guy in the phonebooth, the one right opposite. Then he walked into the bank."

“He’s _definitely_ the one behind the robbery then,” Yesterday cuts in determinedly, “Nightnight’s sharp, like, _super_ sharp. He notices tons of stuff I never do. So now you’ve even got a witness. I mean, that settles the case, right? Right?”

Fortnight runs a hand down his face as Yesterday talks. This seems to be a common dynamic between the two.

September thinks. Monday was speaking through a radio at the time but the thief could’ve easily been _spotted_ putting together that elaborate setup. And he might not have gotten far when September got to the phone booth. If only he’d figured out the radio’s operating radius before it damaged itself beyond investigation.

So things aren’t adding up right away, but there seems to be a witness.

Then again, short and skinny fit the profile of virtually anyone. And Fortnight might just be lying.

"Unfortunately, we still need to investigate before we can draw any conclusions," he says to Yesterday. Then he turns to Fortnight. "Did you see what the man was doing in the phonebooth, sir?"

"I dunno. Wasn't looking that close, I only saw him walk out. Though think he dropped something, cos he was in the middle of standing up. And I'm _not—"_ this was directed to Yesterday as much as it was to September — "saying he went in and started shooting up the bank. I’m just saying he went in."

"Oh, right, right, keeping Redmond’s options open!" Yesterday puts his hand on his chin, deep in thought. Then he sits up straight with one finger raised. "Oh! A new thought totally just crossed my mind. What if he had friends helping him."

"A group effort, huh."

The burglary at Mattis seemed too elaborate to be a one-man show, so multiple players would explain it. And the poor, not Monday-like workmanship on the locks. But —

 _Everyone robs banks nowadays. People get prepared. And I need to get_ creative.

— the jewellery heist at Pewter Mall was just _so mind-blowing._ A heist like that was almost impossible for a group to pull off, much less for someone winging it solo. So impossible that his team had scoured security footage looking for an extra guy, but only found the one.

And something told him Monday Blue would never settle for less than pure spectacle.

"Just telling you what I saw, officer," says Fortnight, clearly no longer interested in the conversation.

He seems bored for a while. Then he nods towards September’s mug. "How's the coffee?"

"Mm?" September startles. "Oh, this, uh—" He doesn't miss Yesterday going that little bit more owl-eyed. "Some of the best coffee I've had in a while now.

Yesterday grins, whispers, “You should thank Nightnight for his help too—”

"Thanks for the tips, sir."

 _"Fuck,_ just cut it _out_ with the sir, already!" Fortnight waves his hand in front of his face. "Never seen a fucking cop so polite in my life. Not to a face like mine, at least."

He gets up and goes to the counter, flicking out a card and handing it to September. "Here. It's a rewards card. Buy ten cups and get one free. Phone number's on the back."

September stashes it into his worn wallet. "Thank you, Mr Fortnight. And Mr Yesterday too."

“Seriously, officer," says the boy with utmost gravity, "just Fort is fine."

Yesterday hums as September finishes the coffee and sets the mug on the counter. The mug has barely left his fingers before it’s clutched tight in Yesterday’s palms.

"I might come back with more questions about the robbery, if that's alright with you two—"

“Definitely alright!" Yesterday’s almost bouncing. "Oh yeah, since you have our address, can you tell the rest of your pals over at the police station? More police customers, that’s so exciting — hey, Nightnight, think we should start baking brownies and donuts too? I found this cool buttermilk recipe, and—"

“Yeah why the hell not, if they don't already get their donuts from a cafe that's actually _near_ the station.”

"Great! Okay! Man, what flavours do officers even like?” Yesterday drifts over to the kitchen. “Strawberry? Chocolate? Both? Man, serving _cops!,_ this is such a huge commitment—"

"My team goes crazy for plain old glaze. The assorted boxes only come with one, right? So we have a  _long_  rock paper scissors tournament for it."

 _"Traditional!”_ yells Yesterday from the kitchen in a definite _Eureka_ moment, “That's an interesting choice! A good choice!"

September turns to the boy with pink hair, who’s clearly the boss of this whole operation. "Here's my card." _Conrad Police Department, Lieutenant September Redmond._ "If you ever see the guy again, or have any leads, give me a call."

"Got it," says Fortnight, taking the card and perching on the counter once again. "Tell you what, we'll do a price match with that other cafe of yours. We’ll be _competitive._ Except we’ll also be fucking _better."_

September laughs as he raises a hand and leaves. "Just stay away from liquid egg and you’ll be fine.”

 

Before the door even stops jingling, Yesterday’s calling out from the kitchen, "He's kinda cute—”

"He's kinda like thirty," deadpans Fort. "If you two fuck in the back room, tell me so I can get the hell out of there."

Yesterday gasps as if scandalized. "You think I would fuck him in the _back room?_ Oh no, it’s way hotter bending him over the counter…”

"Not. On. The cash register. We can't afford to replace it _again."_

Yesterday pouts. "But I even cleaned up and everything… And you _know_ his uniform doesn’t help."

He trails a finger across the surface and leans against it dreamily. His gaze, however, is anything but.

"Say, Nightnight? What do you think the old man wants?”

"How would I fucking know? I just put the cop on the trail like he ordered,” retorts Fortnight. But as his eyes stray to the window, it’s clear that he’s giving it some thought. “Maybe someone pissed him off enough to make him do something."

"I knew our luck was bound to run out sooner or later.” Yesterday leans against the counter. “Or _maybe,_ maybe this is a second chance. And you might get promoted, even—”

"You know he doesn’t give a fuck about _us,"_ says Fortnight, not turning around.

Yesterday pauses. Breathes in. “Mm. You’re right.”

“Yestie—”

The barista reaches over to pluck the card from Fortnight's hand in what is undoubtedly a change of topic. "So should we tell him about Redmond?"

Fortnight lets it happen. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

But as Yesterday disappears into the kitchen with a hum, the younger boy finds himself staring out at the rooftops under the bright blue sky.

He showed up once, he’ll show up again. For sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MO - modus operandi, referring to someone's typical style/habits of work


	3. Chapter 3

Not even September’s best starched uniform could’ve saved him from sticking out like a sore thumb. The waiting room he’s in is adorned with expensive statues one might struggle to not flinch at and distorted reflections that bounce off chrome gold surfaces. And even time seems to stretch as September contemplates his role in the universe (in this very room, even). Finally the office doors open and a tall, slender woman steps out to meet him.

Ms Cobalt, the chief editor of The Conrad Observer.

June.

"Temby, still in one piece I see." She takes a seat opposite, and he slides a small box over.

"This is for you."

She doesn't look at it. "Aren’t you sick of this routine? It's been seven — eight years, now."

"Ah, you know. Just in case."

"I'm not dying any time soon, Temby. But thank you. Now, how can I help you?"

"The robbery at Pewter Mall, and then later Mattis Bank. I was wondering if you knew anything about it. Anyone who's called in, or said anything, or… well, _anything_ at all—"

"Temby, you know I'm not a journalist anymore. I don’t get tip-offs as chief editor, I hire people to find them for me. The pavement’s a filthy place to put your ear to."

She sighs, then relents. “I’ll ask the staff. But I’m _not_ putting an ad in the classifieds for you again, I got into trouble for that.”

September nods. "Thanks, Junie."

“What’s this about, Temby? You look troubled."

 _Troubled —_ no, that doesn’t begin to cut it.

“This is something big.”

June’s lip curls just a fraction. “Oh, when is it not.”

September lowers his gaze. It’s the only acquiesce to an old argument, back when September was still in the police academy and sometimes didn’t come home to Junie for days on end.

"Let me guess, one of those _feelings_ again? That tugging at your gut? You sure it’s not just an upset stomach?”

“I saw him, Junie. He’s not just _any_ thief. He emptied that store and leapt out a window like it was child’s play.”

“An acrobatic child, then.”

“No, that’s the thing. Someone like him — he’s gotta have a reason for showing up here. More than collecting shiny things. Taunting me, leading me to Mattis…”

“Did he?” June has an eyebrow raised.

September recognises this look. Despite everything that’s happened between them and all the ranks and ladders she’s climbed since they split, some things have stayed the same.

He misses this June, just often enough that it aches.

“Whatever he’s planning,” says September, with a gravity that no journalist can resist, “This thief wants me to see it.”

For a long while June doesn’t say anything, just gazes at him like she’s weighing her choices. Weighing _him_ up. And then, the barest hint of a smile that’s barely fond.

“Sounds like a dream case.”

September lets out a shuddering breath. Not troubled — not _just_ troubled.

Thrilled, too.

“Sure is.”

 

 

September doesn’t mean to give money to a cafe that serves liquid egg, but after his squadmate Mina accidentally catapulted a jam-filled donut onto his document tray he desperately needed some quiet time far, far away from the chaos of the bullpen. Especially after an exhausting week working the case of the mysterious phantom thief September feels should be kept to himself for now. Not to mention September’s running on negative hours of sleep and fast running out of leads, and this is the first time he’s eaten in about a full day.

"A-ah sorry, do you mind if I sit here? Forgot to order a takeaway..."

September glances up from his case notes just long enough to take the new arrival in. A boy with soft brown hair and cyan-framed glasses with a mug in one hand, a teetering stack of books and files in the other, practically staggering under their combined weights. Oh, September’s seated across the only empty chair in the cafe. It’s lunchtime already?

"Sure you can sit. Here."

"Thank you _so_ much, officer," the boy says, plonking himself down and arranging his things every which way — papers here, files there, barely enough room for his mug. "You won't _believe_ the day I've had. _So_ many classes, back to back, _all over campus._ And in the last lecture, there was a couple _making out,_ in the _front row._  That's totally gonna go _viral_ …"

September’s trying to focus on his notes, but the boy’s incessant chatter ruins the last shreds of his concentration and there’s really nothing else to do but come back to the one sided conversation to the topic of kids making out with too much detail about how much tongue there’d been.

Is a quiet lunch that much to ask? September sighs. God. The boy looks like he's going to be here for a while. And September isn’t halfway through his lunch. Maybe he can just wrap the sub in serviettes and leave—

"You okay, officer? Tough day?"

September just stifles the next sigh, and pretends not to hear.

Louder, the boy asks, "Beef sub? S'that good?"

He glances up just to be polite. "It's, uh… okay, I guess."

The boy’s staring at September's with the starry-eyed enthusiasm that only a college student could muster. Specifically a college freshman, unlike college seniors who have no souls.

And as September lifts the sub — so happens he does have enough serviettes to wrap it, that’s a good plan — the boy's eyes follow him. Just a little too closely.

Oh, the boy’s staring at his food.

"Man, I wish I wasn't too broke for lunch..." he whines, right on cue.

Slowly, September lowers the sandwich back to the plate.

Dammit. He’s too fucking soft sometimes.

"If I buy you lunch will you promise to keep quiet until I'm done with my food?" He puts a finger on his notebook. "I need to think."

The boy audibly _squeals_ at the suggestion, but frantically backpedals. "Oh my _god,_ it's okay, it’s okay! I don't want to impose... and I don't even know if it's legal? Can I accept gifts from a police officer? Or is that bribing? _Reverse_ bribing? Oh man…”

September takes a long, deep breath. Be nice. It's just a hungry kid. "I don't mind. Watch my food for me."

The boy cowers, but his hunger gets the best of him. His wide, pleading eyes are so very blue. “… I guess… if you really don't mind…”

It’s the work of a moment to get the boy’s lunch, but there’s just no room for it. September’s things are already crowded against the edge of the table as it is.

"Hey, move your things, will you?"

"Oh! Oh! Sorry!" the boy yelps as he springs into action, each movement punctuated unabashedly with _Sorry!!-s._ Then he receives the beef sub with the most radiant of smiles.

"Thank you so much, officer! If there's anything I can do to repay you just let me know! I can do paperwork" — _chomp_ — "or admin work" — _chomp_ — "or coffee boy work” — _chomp chomp_ — “or hey, even graphic design work, _everyone_ works for exposure nowadays —"

September holds out a hand. "Just. A quiet lunch. Will be fine."

He slips a second takeout sandwich into the boy's bag as discretely as he can, which is to say not very discreet at all, because the bag it’s in rustles up a storm. But the boy just eats ravenously, every now and glancing up at the cop as though dying to say something.

September doesn’t engage, because _finally, some quiet._ Coffee in hand, he turns to his notebook again. Finally, time to work the case — great, all his focus has disappeared.

_Great._

After ineffectually reading for a bit he glances at the kid's books.

"What're you studying?"

The boy replies instantly around a mouthful of food. "Heheh, liberal arts, I guess? At Lawsone U! Haven't decided on my major yet. Everything's just so _interesting,_ you know? Literature… classics… global studies…”

September just says, “Ah,” because that’s what you say when you don’t understand someone’s life choices and you’re trying not to let them know that.

“How about you, officer? What's in that book?"

"My case notes. It helps when I have too much on my mind." Resting his hand there, to cover up the scrawl of _Monday Blue_ on the corner of the page.

(The boy's mouth twitches upwards when the officer pats the book, but it's barely noticeable as —)

“Ooooooh, what kind of case? Something dangerous? Or that bank robbery last week? My _whole_ class was talking about it.”

Oh, a lead? "What have you heard?"

"Ehhhh, nothing much? Just a few Twitter videos, also people say someone _died,_ but the news would have reported it if they did, right?" says the boy with innocent conviction.

Yes. The media is trustworthy. To civilians. 100%. September nods encouragingly.

"Although I heard..." the boy leans in close, like he’s telling a secret, "...that it was the _mafia_."

“The _mafia?”_ September blurts out, unable to help himself.

The boy stops short and September glares down at his notebook, flipping rapidly through the pages. Shit, things are coming together. Improbable, maybe, but not _impossible._ The bank had been cracked in under five minutes. It wasn’t like Monday to smash up a bunch of equipment, but surely the mafia had enough hands to do it...

He’d once heard whispers of a crime ring called _Tempus_ on the streets, but then no more — which meant it was either an urban legend or powerful enough to remain only that.

"Whoa whoa _whoa,_ don't tell me you actually _believe_ all that stuff! It's just hearsay! I think most of it comes from film majors—"

“Who? I need to talk to them.”

"Oh, oh my god, wait, okay, look, I heard all this from friends of friends of friends, I know a lot of film majors but I don’t really know _know_ them… oh!"

The boy waves a finger and flashes him a brilliant smile.

"Tell you what, mister, come by the Fine Arts College garden at 3:30 tomorrow. My film major friend ends her class there, she's really nice!"

September nods, carefully penning it down.

But eventually, his pen slows.

He looks up. The boy’s staring at him too. A second passes and there’s no doubt they’re both waiting for something — or maybe for each other.

"What's your name?" asks September. They both know the question is too loaded to be innocent.

"Hmm?" says the boy, a perfect picture of innocence as September’s hand drifts over to one of the boy’s open books. "I'm Ben, sir. Ben Dover."

September turns the name over in his mind, matching it to past records, wondering _why it sounds so goddamn familiar._ The boy looks over at the book trapped under September’s palm and smiles sheepishly.

"Oh, that's one of my sketchbooks. It's all rubbish, really. Do you… wanna take a look?"

He studies the boy — Ben — carefully.

"Well, _Mr Dover,_ I'd love to."

There's only one thing in the sketchbook spread over its middle pages, in dark blue ink and exuberant cursive.

 _Call me!,_ says the book, with the number of a pizza place under it.

When September looks up, the boy is gone — books and files abandoned, papers flying in his wake. Only the bag — and its beef sub — has disappeared along with him.

September's phone is vibrating.

It doesn't take even a second to connect the dots. September growls as he whips the phone to his ear. "Bend Over? Really?—”

_"Excuse you, it's a totally legitimate name. You're insulting Bens everywhere! And Dovers."_

“I should've slapped cuffs on you while I had the chance. You didn’t even thank me for the food."

 _"Mind, I did thank you! I was even gonna_ intern _for you—"_

"Then come intern for me."

 _"Oops, sorry officer, I just remembered! My professor says it's a bad idea to accept unpaid internships after all. Exposure doesn't feed mouths. Unlike beef subs!"_ Monday's student impression falls away with a laugh. _"Anyway, I'm sure you know to not bother tracing this call. I won't be at the other end."_

"You slimy little…” September pinches the bridge of his nose. "What do you want, Monday."

 _"Don't worry, officer. You gave me_ everything _I wanted. Though really, it's about what I gave you."_

“Is it? You don’t have a warrant or access to security footage or documents. But there’s more where that came from, Mr Blue. You _want_ me fishing around for the Mafia. For Tempus. You need the stuff only cops can help you sniff out.”

 _"Oh, I don't need to know any more about_ them. _The further I stay away from them the better. But you, however."_ September can hear the smirk in Monday’s voice. _"You can't turn down a lead, can you?"_

A longer pause. September's voice is low. "Who are you to them, Monday?"

Now it's Monday's turn to pause. Just a little, but enough to be telling.

 _"The whole point of a mafia,"_ Monday says, _"is that whoever's not in the mafia is their enemy by default."_

September's frown deepens, but he is genuine when he replies, "Thank you, Monday."

The moment hangs between them, rare, precious, for a few seconds.

Only to be broken when September growls, "Now return the gold chain you stole and help me with this case already.”

_“So you have an excuse to put me in witness protection, under your watch? Don’t play dirty!”_

And dial tone.

A few blocks away, a burner phone falls into a street trash can, screen crushed by a shoe heel. A boy with soft brown hair and cyan glasses strolls down the pavement working through a beef sub, shading his bright blue eyes from the sun.

Back in the cafe, September returns his phone to his pockets and realises that he has a bigger, more pressing problem at hand than ‘a mafia’… God, he needs to clean up Monday's mess _again_ — What on earth is he going to do with this mountain of cardboard books and empty files?

  


The Police Academy’s had its fair share of stuck-up lecturers who’ve never been out in the field, but September’s heard they’re a far cry from an actual university lecturer. So he doesn’t have much by way of a disguise of when he settles on a bench outside the Lawsone University Fine Arts College, only a cup of coffee.

The students are buying it, though. Great to know that burnt, too-acidic coffee still seems to be mankind’s great leveller. Perfect for pretending he has an actual non-police reason to be here, that one of their schoolmates isn’t a suspect for a potential high-profile mafia case.

September holds his coffee and ponders the mysteries of the universe, as one is wont to do in schools one hasn’t streaked in, and waits.

3:15PM.

3:25PM.

3:28PM.

3:29PM.

3:30PM.

Faintly, a lecture bell rings from inside the building.

No one exits. No one stirs.

Finally, at 3:49PM, a groaning swarm of students stream out — _(Of course Prof Han goes off about his cat again, it’s like he doesn’t even want to teach, god. Hey, you wanna grab a bite before Prof Ken’s lecture later or something?)_ —

One of them catches his eye right away. Rather, it’s what’s slung around her neck: a heavy-duty camera, _branded,_ more cared for than the bag slung across her shoulders. What _do_ kids get for allowance these days? — Its owner has a high, ashy brown ponytail and a spring in her step. Her head’s down as she wanders into the garden scrolling through photos, paying him no mind.

A butterfly lands on a nearby flower and she crouches to take a picture.

A photographer? Interesting. _Valuable._ Testimony from a barista was one thing, and a cryptic riddle through radios that blew up after 30 seconds was another, but _hard evidence?_ Now that was something he could turn in to the precinct chief and get an investigative team on this still-not-properly-a-case case ASAP.

He lets the girl take a few shots before remarking, "Good place for photos, huh? I saw a squirrel and a yellow bird earlier."

The girl turns. "Squirrel? Where?”

“You know. Just, back there, somewhere…” he gestures vaguely in the direction of a water fixture.

She looks, then contemplates her options as she says, “They're really hard to capture, but with the right shutter speed—”

The butterfly flits off the flower for a moment. They pause. Watch as it carefully selects another petal, wings opening, folding, catching the light.

"’Scuse me," she mutters, going back to her camera.

Detailed. Dedicated. The kind to get hired as a private investigator — he’s brushed shoulders with his fair share (what, it wasn’t exactly investigative procedure, but a case was a case, okay). A few silent minutes pass before she looks up from her camera.

"So… You study fine arts? How does a college student find time for photography?"

 _"Um,”_ she sounds offended. “I'm a _film_ major. Which the profs _insist_ isn't a Fine Arts major, but like, who actually cares about that, right? We’re all weirdos anyway!" She laughs nonchalantly. "And you know, I find the time. Portfolios are important! Plus the advanced photog teacher this sem is… kinda useless, honestly."

September nods understandingly as the girl gets up. The butterfly has disappeared.

"How about you? Never seen you around here before."

"Well, that’s because I'm not really from around here. I'm a detective for the Conrad District Force."

He pulls his trenchcoat back to reveal the badge strapped to his belt. He plays it casual, pretending he doesn’t see her tensing up before carefully relaxing one part of herself at a time.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says after a meaningful pause, “I might have a lead for an important case, and I think you'd be able to help me. My name's Redmond. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, Officer Redmond," she replies with a smile. "But I don't… know what I could possibly help you with? I'm just a student.”

“Every lead’s a lead.” He gestures. “How can I address—”

“Dawn. Dawn Marengo.” Her smile grows a little strained.

September says, “Good to meet you, Dawn,” and means it. He has to stifle a laugh with a cough, and Dawn gives him a weird look. "Sorry. I was wondering if you knew a—" another cough. "If you knew Ben? He was the one who told me about you. He said, uh, you were his friend? And that you were… Nice."

"Ben…? Sorry, you'll have to be more specific, there are probably like a million Bens in the world and I know at least six of them."

"Last name Dover. Brown hair, cyan glasses, talks non stop. Freshman."

"Ben Dover…” Dawn forces herself to kill an impending giggle.

September mutters, "I know, what a name, huh."

"Yeah.”

She gives him a look. _You got duped, officer._ Yes, he knows.

“But no, I don't quite recall a Mr. Dover…” She sobers. "What's the case?"

"Might be related to the Mattis Bank robbery earlier this week. Ben must've told me about you for a reason, so I'm thinking..." he glances at her camera. "Your hobby might be able to help me. Could you tell me what's on your camera?"

"Um. Butterflies? Trees? A moldy bun I found in the bathroom? Some weirdo eating cat food?” September makes a face, and Dawn hesitates. "I mean, I did pass by Mattis Bank on the day of the robbery. Didn't get a good picture though. Just the entrance, and it's all dark and shadowy."

She scrolls to the picture on her camera and walks up to September — only tilting the camera so he can see, keeping her finger over the scroll wheel. Just like Dawn said, the photograph’s nothing spectacular, an underexposed shot of blue and white police tape with uniforms all over the scene.

"Sorry I can't help more... I have no idea why _whoever_ that was thought of me.”

"Oh no, every little bit helps. Do you have class after this? I was wondering if you'd be free to chat over some coffee? Just to ask you some questions about what you saw, whatever you remember.”

"It's fine, I got stuff to do…"

"What if I said please with a free coffee for you?" He flicks out a card. "You can help me fill this up and keep it.”

Dawn recognises the cafe, but not in a comforting way, it seems. "Well, _my_ favourite cafe's just down the street. Mind if we go there instead?"

She's uncomfortable, but September can't lose her, so he just nods. "Sure. Get anything you want, I'll pay for it as a thank you. Lead the way?”

"Sure!" She’s cheered up, just a little. Wow, college kids are _really_ motivated by food.

Dawn leads him to the cafe, which just happens to be the usual police haunt a block down from the station. To September's horror, she orders a flat white and the kitchen's trademark liquid eggs. They sit down and she digs in. She seems to genuinely enjoy the eggs.

Tell her about the eggs? Or don’t? It seems kinder not to burst her bubble. Even if it’s laced with salt and probably has the same nutritional value as a twice-fried corn dog. People like corn dogs, don’t they? And maybe she won’t taste the week-old spoon used to stir this as it cooks?

"So, what can I do for you?"

Oh, September’s staring. Dawn seems to be used to it by now, shovelling the eggs into her mouth with abandon. Valiantly trying not to think about the kitchens September cuts right to the chase.

“That photo of Mattis Bank, was it taken just after the robbery? All the lights are off. What were you doing in the area? Not a common place to be, especially on a weekday."

"I had a free day. My class got cancelled, so I went to the bank to settle some stuff. And wouldn't you know it, my bank got robbed." Dawn talks around her spoon, back to her lighthearted self. She smiles ruefully. "That's my life, really. I'm just always in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place, depending on how you look at it."

"At the right place at the right time? What other times are there?"

In reply, Dawn scrolls through her camera pictures, pausing every now and then to show September a new one. Each photo is of a crime scene. The shots have a certain art to them — criss-crossed police tapes, flashing siren lights, glimpses of broken glass.

“Wow, you've got skill, kid."

"Just hoping to make a living off ‘em one day, officer. But thanks! Just so happens I keep stumbling onto crime scenes,” she says, like it’s supposed to be a good explanation.

September snorts, but decides to let it pass. She goes on, oblivious, “Last week, on Craig Road. Just yesterday, on Merchant Street. They're everywhere. I mean, the crime rate's gone way up. Everyone's talking about it."

"Who's spreading these rumours anyway?"

Dawn’s eyebrows furrow. "It’s statistics, right? On the news and everything. People don't feel safe anymore. So I guess there'll be rumours flying everywhere."

“Heard it was the film majors, actually.”

“The film school talk gets _much_ wilder than rising crime rates, trust me. Most of them are probably just rejected movie pitches… don’t tell me you heard one from Ben and he said it came from me? Like, I’ve never even _seen_ the guy! You sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree here?”

She’s amused. September can see why.

"Anyone paying you?" he goes on.

"I guess I get a few bucks selling pics off to small papers and tabloids. You know The Conrad Herald? They can't afford their own in-house photographers, right? So I'm the best they got. And the cheapest," she shrugs, playing it down, like her camera isn’t way above September’s pay grade. "Guess I’m just lucky."

September doesn’t respond to that, which spooks her just a little, but not for long.

“It's just the small papers, but it's alright. Better than nothing," she clarifies. “Work’s work, you know? Especially with _this_ economy. Damn baby boomers.”

“I know a few who'd love getting their hands on talent like yours,” September says carefully.

Dawn gazes at him and says, equally as carefully, “And who might these ‘a few’ be?”

"Well,” September drums fingers on the table, pretending to be on the fence, deep in thought, “I might be interested."

"W… why would you want these?"

She was right to be suspicious. Not often a freelancer for the tabloids got stopped by the cops and asked to hand over photographs as evidence. Usually she was the one getting into trouble for holding the camera.

But September knows there’s a reason why Monday Blue — that insolent student Ben Dover — had told him about this lead personally. No funny tricks, no riddles to be solved, no cryptic goose chase around the block and using crimes as proxies.

Just _being_ at Mattis Bank meant only one thing — Dawn was important. And September wasn’t going to let her slip away.

Even if it meant playing out of pocket.

“Let’s set a price before I share anything."

Magic words. Just like that, Dawn’s eyes light. Just for a fraction of a second, but September’s seen enough perps to know what to look for, and no doubt Dawn will take the bait once it looks good for her. “… What are we talking about, just these photos? A specific beat? First or exclusive access?"

"Exclusive access. I won't pry for your previous photos, but I want everything related to certain crime scenes. If those photos help me, I want it. You can do whatever you want with the rest."

Dawn gazes at him. _Yes, it’s a little too good to be true._ She holds her hand out for a pen, then slides a napkin with her proffered sum on it.

One look and September’s already thinking about all the lunches he’ll have to cut down on, all the coffees he’ll have to make do without. No point covering it up; Dawn's probably already noticed. So he just sighs and says, "Alright, but only because I'm also paying for your luck too."

He offers a hand.

"So, deal?"

A smile bursts across her face and she takes his hand firmly. "Deal."

Then she withdraws her hand and smiles wider still.

"Honestly I was aiming high with that one, can't believe you actually took it."

Something in September's gaze dies. "Good to know, Dawn."

"So, what's the brief?"

He can’t tell her too much, but he can start with the simple things. “Show me all your photos of the Mattis bank robbery."

And just as they’d promised, Dawn extracts her camera and scrolls quickly through the photos. Most of it is inconsequential — police cordons, cars, a zoomed-in shot of the bank doors. But there’s a darkened shot somewhere September doesn’t recognise immediately, and —

"Wait. What's that? The side street." He peers closer. "I thought I saw something."

Dawn cycles back to the photo. There's a figure sitting on a nearby rooftop,  with a dark smudge on its face that suggests the eyemask of Monday Blue. Squarely caught in the middle of the frame, Dawn had clearly intended to catch the figure first.

But in the alleyway below, there seems to be something… Dawn scrolls to the next photo, its position shifted just a little to the right.

A few shadowy someones in the alleyway.

No way Monday would’ve missed them from this angle. There were enough of them to make at least some fuss and Monday didn’t seem the kind to overlook things, not with the skillset enough to vanish millions in gold and jewels.

So was Fort telling the truth, was Monday behind the robbery?

Was Monday just there as a spectator? Who was he watching, and why?

And… did Monday _want_ him to see this?

"Do you know who these people are, have you seen them before? What were they doing before you took the shot?"

"No idea. Was way more interested in the person on the rooftop, like, it's a pretty shot, right? That roof's gotta be out of bounds, too."

Dawn seems a little troubled by the people in the alleyway, presumably because they escaped her notice before.

"Oh, he’s pretty, alright. If you ever see that guy again, I want to know." He adds firmly, "And nobody else gets photos of him."

“Why, you got a thing for him, officer?”

September glares and Dawn tries not to laugh.

“Kidding, kidding, just a joke.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

September brings Dawn back to the station to transfer the files (he isn’t stupid, a paper trail is absolutely the last thing he needs when he’s working a case that isn’t technically his) — she nearly protested at first, but when September said the precinct’s cheque book was there it was _really_ hard to refuse.

Dawn waits outside. A pizza boy tailgates him into the lift. September doesn't think much of it, until the boy follows him all the way to his office. He would have stopped the boy, told him he had the wrong room number, but as soon as the boy says "Pizza for Mr Red!", he knows exactly what's going on.

He reluctantly pays the boy for his goods, and stares at the box on his table.

Before he opens it, he transfers the photographs into his computer. Makes copies. Shuts it down.

Finally, he comes face to face with the box. Brings it to the window, just in case there's something that needs to be thrown out immediately.

Plus, Monday would probably want to watch it, and no better place to look than from the rooftops.

Gingerly, he opens the box.

There's a small device nestled in the very centre of the pizza.

It's hard to tell what it is. But when September leans in for a closer look—

 _"You're not going to throw me out, are you?"_ says the pizza. _"I’m a good pizza! Best margherita in town."_

Carefully not looking at the rooftops, he sighs. Then he says to the pizza, "What do you want, Monday."

_"Just making sure you eat lunch, officer!”_

"I'd really rather prefer eating with you. If you want some privacy, I can send my new friend on her way and you can share some of this pizza."

_"My, Mr Red, you're so forward! But I'm afraid I'd rather not move so fast. I'm shy and naive and I've never done something like this before…"_

September can't stop his face from turning red, not even as he says, "Guess you won't be having any of this pizza then. Stop making things into something they’re not."

_"Hey, I'm not trying to make out anything! Make out with anything though. That's another question."_

September resists the urge to fling the pizza out the window. Like a frisbee. It will definitely go far. "You sent me a new lead. Why?"

_"Oh, you know me, always so generous. Admit it, Septie. One mention of organised crime and you can't get your mind off it. I'm simply giving you what you want. Besides, Dawn’s useful."_

September worries his bottom lip. Monday's not wrong.

"You wouldn't have led me into this if you didn't have something to gain. You want me chasing them. You need me."

 _"Maybe,"_ the pizza acknowledges casually. _"Or maybe I just like watching you work. And I can't steal things every day, it's tiring."_

"It’s _impolite,_ stalking someone all the time."

 _“It’s not_ ‘stalking’, _Septie darling. And not as impolite as you keeping your new friend waiting downstairs.”_

September sighs. Grabs a slice of pizza. If Monday was going to deliver some, he was going to eat it. He still had a million questions, but Marengo was waiting, and he needed to make sure she could trust him enough to deliver photographs a second time.

“If I come back and you’re gone,” he growls.

 _"Silly Septie, I'm a pizza!"_ says the pizza. _"I'll stay right where I am."_

September snorts but quickly heads back down, thumbdrive and cheque in one hand and pizza for Dawn in the other.

He hurries to her. "Sorry. A colleague was demanding my attention."

"Hey, no worries." Dawn accepts the thumbdrive and cheque, nods at the food. "Pizza party?"

"Kinda. Idiot colleague charged it to me without checking if I had enough lunch money." He holds out the pizza. "For you."

"Really? Wow, thanks." Dawn grins, grabbing the pizza and taking a bite immediately. "Anyway, I've got a class after this, so… you'll call me if there's anything else?"

“Of course. Till next time, Ms Marengo.”

"See ya, Mr Cop."

September watches her go and can’t help but add —  "Stay out of trouble!"

One last wave and she disappears around the block. September heads back upstairs, casually scanning the rooftops for a silhouette. Time to resume conversation with Mr Margherita.

"Hey, asshole. I'm back."

It takes September a while to realise he isn't alone. When his gaze returns to the room around him, he sees a familiar figure standing at his desk — faded khaki trench coat, salt and pepper hair falling out of its carefully waxed styling, pale tired eyes.

Ven Pemberton, chief inspector.

September quickly glances at the pizza on the windowsill, but the speaker is no longer there. And there's another slice missing from it too.

"Have we given up on civilities entirely now?" says Ven, exhausted. "Though with your habitual neglect of professional conduct, I'm not surprised."

He and Pemberton have grated against each others' nerves for years. When protocol was involved the stuffy old bastard wouldn't pursue a blatant lead even if it socked him in the nose. But rank was rank, and September still needed to throw his own outside the station.

Ven’s worked with September enough to recognise the lieutenant’s insides shrivelling up.

"No, I was, I was talking to someone else. I didn't know you'd be here." He clears his throat. "Sir."

Ven lets out an equally well-practiced long-suffering sigh, letting September know that he was shrivelling up just as painfully.

"How can I help you, sir?"

"For a start, you could offer me a slice. Then, " he continues, holding up September's checkbook with its freshly-torn front, "you can tell me about the latest random civilian you've handed our money to."

September bites back an affronted _You were sneaking through my stuff?_ and holds the box out to Ven. Pointedly not looking at the book.

Ven extracts a slice and takes a large bite. He chews, slowly. He's used to waiting. Stubborn, reckless September just never talks so easily. So Ven simply picks up the checkbook himself and reads the carbon copy left behind.

"Dawn Marengo. For 'investigative assistance'. Paid by the department, of course. With funds we barely have, that you abundantly spend."

"I was planning to pay it back. I just needed the amount upfront." He puts the box down. "If you came here to get the money back, sorry but you'll have to wait for my next three paychecks."

"And you _don't_ pay informants out of pocket either! The point, Officer Redmond, is not to drive you broke. The point is for you to be prudent. And _accountable._ I told you to run all your expenses through me or at the very least your teammates until you get your spending under control. As usual, you haven't listened."

"I _am_ accountable. I'm telling you _now_ aren't I? And I'll pay it back. Plus you would've said no if I'd asked." He folds his arms. (Petulantly, Ven notices.) "Either way the department's money has to go one way or another."

"And I'll tell you again, Redmond. Not. The. Point." Ven sighs again. "So who is this Dawn Marengo? What's so indubitably valuable about her?"

September latches onto the change of conversation. "Just some kid. She said she had some photos of Mattis bank, which I had to buy. You know. As evidence."

He clams shut again. The last thing he wants is Ven putting his foot down on the Mattis investigation that is technically-not-his-investigation before he can convince anyone it’s a case worth chasing. Ven has absolutely no tolerance for him working cases on the side. _Moonlighting,_ he calls it. As if September’s illegal.

"And we don't already have enough pictures of the Mattis bank robbery because…?”

"Because…” September drags out the word to buy some time. "She was…”

Ven lets him buy the time. Time, after all, is free.

September sighs. There’s no getting out of this, huh. "Do you think there might be other parties involved? Mattis Bank was a huge operation. Just a hunch," he adds, playing it down.

Ven stares at him. _Clearly_ it's not just a hunch.

"Let me see the photographs," he says.

Unwillingly September boots up the desktop and steps aside to let Ven look at the photographs.

Ven examines the photos in silence, one by one, until he finds the jackpot.

He lingers. He zooms in, and then he enhances a few times.

He looks at it again.

Then he presses a few buttons, and the printer begins to whirr down the hall.

Ven straightens up and sighs.

"Congratulations, lieutenant. One picture, out of 86, was useful."

"Look, I didn't know what I was going to get. She wouldn't let me see anything unless I bought them."

"College student?" Ven smiles ruefully. "Yeah, they're sneaky alright. And you let yourself get conned by one?”

" _Tempus_ might be involved,” September blurts out, and at the name of the fabled crime ring Ven’s smile drops immediately. “I think spending that kind of money is worth the tip-off, even if you don't think so."

For a moment it seems Ven is surprised, but the apprehension returns and he is Not Impressed With Him after all. "You're buying into their gossip mill now? Those extra guys could be anyone. Accomplices. Personal enemies. Nothing suggests _mafia_ but your preconception."

September stays silent. Not exactly the easiest thing in the world to say _A strange phantom thief is pulling strings, asshole, I need to play along_ and not be suspended on the spot.

Finally, "Ven, you know me. I don't go after small cases. I just need some time."

"Of course. September Redmond. The medal-winner. The glory chaser. I know," says Ven, sincerely, "you worked hard to get here. But not every case needs to be groundbreaking, Redmond. It just needs to be closed. In this case," he admitted, "we _will_ open the Mattis case again as per your evidence. Credit where credit is due.”

September’s about to shoot something snide back in reply when Ven goes on.

“But the same goes for _financial_ credit, Redmond." Ven walks to the door to collect his printout. "I want your expenses run past me. That's final. Even if it's just a text. Probably the most I can expect from you anyway."

 _"Alright,_ I get it. Text it is, _sir."_

September moves to turn off the monitor, possessive. He waits for another word from Ven but it seems he’s already plodding down the hallway towards the precinct printer. September rubs his eyes.

Where _is_ the object of all his grief anyway? He heads to the window, and then helps himself to another slice of pizza just because he can’t let this food go to waste.

Monday has to be out there. Somewhere.

"Fuck you, Monday."

 

 

A hideously sunny afternoon, a few days later.

A Monday, actually.

Dawn walks into _Cafe Time!,_ craning her neck to see who’s at the counter that day. But of course, it’s always Yesterday.

He beams and bounces towards her. "Hey, Dawn! Good to see you here! Man. It's been _ages_ since we talked! I missed you! How's the film prof, how’s your portfolio — Oh! What can I get for ya?"

"Flat white, please. God, I've missed your coffee _so_ much. I went to the cafe across the block a few days back — major regret.”

Yesterday hops back behind the machine and soon has it whirring, the aroma wafting into the air. "Oh ew, is the scruffy blonde there still serving instant egg? He's horrible."

“Yeah, well, at least it was seasoned properly. And I didn't have to pay for it."

"A dine and dash? Barbaric," he teases, a twinkle in his eye. "Don't worry. I don’t tattle, I don't judge."

"Coming from the person who uses sex as a coping mechanism? Yestie, come on." Dawn crosses her arms over the counter casually. "I got someone else to pay for it.”

Fortnight slouches out of the back room. "Call the fucking press, Marengo's got a date."

“Good to see you again too, Fort." Dawn cracks a smile. "And for the record, it's not like that—"

"Nightnight darling, I love your clever tongue but come on, you should encourage her! She’s dating age. And in _university._ She should totally get a date before being _thrust_ into the cruel capitalist world.” He hands her cup with a smile. “So, sugar daddy? One night stand? If you're not hitting him up, dibs!"

Dawn snickers. "Hey, Yestie, you’d like this guy. He’s a _uniform."_

"A cop?" says Fortnight. "The fuck were you doing getting a drink from a cop?"

"He was looking for leads or something. Didn't have any, but he said he'd buy me a drink for a chat, so whatever."

"Oooooooh," Yesterday leans over the counter. "Was it your photographs? A cop came by here a while back too! Nightnight brought him in." He sighs and melts against the coffee machine. "He was so cute… but Nightnight said no fucking on the cash register really so what is the point."

“Yestie,” Fort grits out. Yesterday, boneless, doesn’t move.

"Maybe it was the same one. He asked about Mattis Bank," Dawn replies, not batting an eyelid. "No idea how it helped, but I got the dosh."

"It's gotta be him," says Fortnight while pouring out some ice water. "He bought a drink to hear me talk about some guy I might've saw. Never knew Mattis Bank was such a big fucking deal.”

"Or maybe the cops are just trying to use up their budget," quips Dawn, taking a long sip from the coffee mug. "Thanks Yesterday, great coffee as always."

Abruptly, she takes her cup to a corner seat, furthest from the window.

The conversation stalls.

Everyone knows what’s coming.

Fortnight walks over and lays out a paper coaster and places an icy glass of water on top, sliding it towards Dawn.

Then he sets down another glass and leaves.

Dawn takes a sip of water, idly flipping around the paper coaster as she does so. It's minimally designed — white with the cafe logo, and nothing else.

Right on cue, the door rings. Yesterday seeks out shelter behind Fortnight, never mind that the pink-haired boy’s a full head shorter than him. Stepping in is a woman wearing stilettos that could murder, a smile that petrified the dead and deep jade eyes that'd seen it happen thrice.

“Fortnight, amusing to see you haven't yet gone bald. And good day to you too, Yesterday. Get me the sweetest thing on your menu, iced."

Yesterday mumbles _yes ma'am,_ uncharacteristically muted, as the woman slides deftly into the booth seat opposite Dawn.

"Marengo." She lifts a white cigarette to her lips with slender fingers. Smoke curls around her. "Word is that you made a new friend… though I didn't think I'd have to court the grapevine for this kind of information."

"Sorry, Miss Enn, but honestly you guys are kinda hard to contact? It's not like you have a fixed mobile number."

Dawn keeps her tone demure and polite, though she doesn't quite want to back down either. There is a certain way to deal with Miss Enn, and Dawn would _like_ to think she's getting it down. Gradually.

"Anyway, if you’re referring to the cop, don't worry. I only gave him a bunch of duds. Nothing important."

Enn hums thoughtfully.

They silently stare as Yesterday sets down a big cup drowned with whip cream and caramel streaks, jerking his head stiffly before escaping into the back room.

Enn takes her time pressing a spoon into the white mound pushing out of the cup.

"Indulge me, Marengo. Just what did he ask of you, darling?”

Dawn shrugs. "I just gave him stuff on Mattis Bank, that's it. He didn't care about anything else."

Enn toys with the handle of her cup contemplatively. "Really? Then tell me why I received this in my email today."

She shows Dawn her phone — and the photo of the alleyway.

Dawn squints. "That's just a throwaway pic. For white balance. And some guy on the rooftop I thought looked cool — wait, Redmond's your police contact? Were you testing me?"

"I’m just disappointed, Marengo. You know how important our target is. We were in the area, we could’ve secured him if you’d told us, as per your contractual agreement.”

“This guy was your — But I could barely see his face against the light! And your profile of him is like, five years old!”

“We don’t tip you off to our operations for shoddy ID-work, Marengo. Nobody is happy about this. Because now we’re behind on our search. I actually have instructions to terminate our deal.”

Dawn tries to remain as calm as possible. "Seriously, I had no idea the shot was that important. I took that picture for myself and was gonna sell the rest to Conrad Herald. Like we arranged. But the police guy got to me first and asked me for everything and I just didn’t think — look, he was paying _per photo."_

She's had a few days to think about it; she’s a paid runner and she runs towards where the green smells sweetest. Enn knows this. Dawn’s determined to salvage this, she wouldn't have taken the officer's money if she didn't think she could handle them both —

"For real, I'm not interested in who wins or loses this… thing. I'm just trying to get paid and not die."

"We won't fatten up your paycheck, if that's what you're hoping to get out of this."

“Oh no,” Dawn says with a smile that’s tight and strained, “Definitely not hoping for that, Miss.”

“That’s reassuring,” Enn says. To Dawn it’s everything but. “Well, since you made this bed, I will have you lie in it, Ms. Marengo. Put your new friend to good use.”

She slides a thumbdrive across the table. Dawn tries not to look too apprehensive. She knows exactly what Enn’s getting at. This isn’t what she had signed up for, but if it means getting out of here unscathed she’s not going to think twice.

Enn toys with her spoon as Dawn stashes away the device. "So, when can I expect your friend to come knocking on our doors?"

"I don't know. I mean, he kinda doesn’t have any leads besides… that photo at Mattis Bank. And whatever photo you just gave me." Dawn tries not to sound too curious when she adds, “Who is he, anyway? The target?"

"He’s just some kid making mistakes." Enn licks her spoon, a smile curling the corner of her lips. "Now be good, and when you're done tell your contact. In the meanwhile, no photo goes to your friend without my permission."

‘Just some kid?’ Unhelpful.

Mistakes made, though, does that mean Redmond’s also making one by tangling himself up in this business?

Dawn knows she can’t afford to care.

Enn taps the edge of her cigar into her glass when Dawn doesn’t reply immediately. "I’d appreciate some acknowledgement, Dawn, I’ve already been on radio silence long enough."

"The cop’s not my friend. But I got it," she says. "Anything else?"

"Well, I suppose I must thank you. As fate would have it, we wouldn’t have known he was here if you hadn’t spotted him in the first place."

Dawn stays very still as she stands.

"Stay on the right side of the fence, Dawn. Wouldn't want to waste a pretty face like yours. Fort, Yesterday, thanks for the great service as usual."

And with that, she's gone.

 

 

 _"Fuc-king biiiitch,"_ Fortnight drawls from the counter once she’s out of sight. "Marengo, you alright?"

"Yeah," says Dawn dumbly. She’s just overwhelmed.

“I’m not,” says Yesterday, emerging from the back room to bury his face in the boy’s shoulder. Fort pats his head without even turning around. “She gives me the creeps. Eyes like a snake. Eurgh.”

“Enn's a fucking bitch, you know that. One day she's gonna break a heel and fall down a fucking drain, I promise."

Yesterday sniffs but looks up. Holds out a hand. "Pinky swear."

Fortnight links pinkies like it’s second nature. "Yeah, yeah. I'll get in the sewers and make it happen."

Dawn rolls her eyes. “Try doing that before she gets to Redmond. I feel kinda bad for him. A little."

"Is he in trouble?" Yesterday trots over, all grievances with Enn seemingly forgotten, and slides into the seat beside hers. "I thought he was kinda smart. Hey, Nightnight, what do you think?"

“Nah. He’s the cop of all cops. Calls everyone and his mother sir. Takes notes. Nods at everything." Fortnight lets out a breath. “… What trouble d'you get him into?"

"Enn's onto him," replies Dawn. "Bad luck he found me of all people. Hey, do you know this guy?"

She takes out her own phone and opens her copy of the photo, focusing on the masked figure on the rooftop.

Fortnight walks closer and stares at the picture, eyebrows drawing together. Yesterday shoves his head in between them, clocking Fort squarely on the head, but the boy doesn’t even have a swear as Yesterday chirps.

"Hey, it's him! Everyone's after him," he tells Dawn with utmost gravity. "But nobody's ever seen him, I think. Only Nightnight has, just one time."

"Yeah, like half a time,” says Fort, rubbing his head. “And Redmond was _interested,_ like, fucking interested. No fucking clue what he did, though.”

Dawn shrugs, zooming into the picture. "Enn said he was just some kid. But he's way more than that, has to be."

Yesterday nods immediately. “Oh yeah, Mr Uniform knows him from before. Said it was linked to an elaborate burglary at Pewter Mall. The one where 3.45 million worth of shinies were scattered around the patrons. And only one thing was missing. A gold chain 24 karat with a hook clasp. Maybe the guy has it? And Enn wants it back?"

"All this over some jewellery? Seems petty even for Enn,” Dawn looks troubled. "And she said she’s already been looking for ages."

"Well shit," says Fortnight with uncharacteristic gusto. "It’s gotta be big then, the old man doesn’t just set a fucking nutcase like Enn on the trail."

Yesterday looks down at his hands. Dawn doesn’t catch it, but Fort does — his fingers are trembling slightly. "I don't suppose we can tell September about this?… I thought he was nice—"

"Do you _wanna_ get fucked up by the boss?" Fortnight snaps, then softens. "He's a cop. Cops can handle themselves. If not he's a shit cop."

Dawn nods. "Yeah, Redmond’s resourceful, think he’ll have some not-shit partners or something. He’ll be fine."


	5. Chapter 5

The latest robbery isn’t connected to _anything_ about Tempus.

Thank god.

Three dumbasses raided an IT firm on Portsdown Street. They’d nabbed a good bunch of expensive cameras, but stumbled straight into the path of a patrol car. Newbies, blokes after a quick buck. They confessed without much issue.

It’s an open and shut case, but September’s team is deployed onsite to appease the boss of Portsdown IT, who is very loud and noisy and kicking a fuss that September is very glad to let Ven deal with.

Truth be told though, September doesn’t want to be here. He has more important things to do, like finding Monday…

And not to mention, he’s convinced Ven has asked his teammates to keep an eye on him. As if September’s a _child._ And September is not a child.

Teammate numero uno, Mina Cara, is leaning against the police car eating a chocolate donut. The icing melts all over her fingers in the sun.

"You think there's a bomb in there?" Mina says, licking her fingers and wiping them on her shirt. "Could be a bomb."

“It’s not going to be—”

"What d'you think, Paul? Beats standing here all day doing nothing, huh?" Evidently she’s not talking to September, instead calling out to the third member of their team — her not-so-secret-sweetheart.

September resists the urge to sigh a long-suffering sigh.

"U-Uhm, I don't know? Maybe?" Paul de Vis floats over hesitantly while looking at the building behind the red and white tape. "I hope it isn’t a bomb..."

September counts to ten. Be nice, Redmond, be nice. "There's no bomb. Didn't you lot read the brief? It was a B&E. Robbers don't—"

"So should we call bomb disposal?" Paul asks Mina.

"I'm sure we can take care of it," says Mina to Paul in a badly veiled attempt to sound impressive and capable. "Unless there really is a bomb. Then we kinda have to call bomb disposal. 'Cos they have special equipment and all that. But we're safe, babe, don't worry."

Paul smiles in relief and Mina gives him a reassuring nod, very police-like. Then privately says to September, "Nailed it."

The two not-lovebirds fix each other with adoring eyes.

"We are _not_ equipped to handle a bomb," says September.

“Sure we can. Mina said we can,” says Paul to his team leader, September Redmond. “I'm just worried about the civilians living near here if it does go off… What will they do?"

"It'll be on us,” says September. "There will be. NO. Bombs. Going off."

"We'll have to evacuate them!” Paul goes on. “I better go check for traces of explosives.”

And without waiting for a reply, Paul does indeed go to check for traces of explosives.

September lets out the long sigh he’d been holding in, then says to Mina, "There is a sugar stain on your uniform."

"Oh shit — seriously?" Mina swipes at her shirt with her still-dirty fingers, which just spreads the stain everywhere. She doesn't seem to notice. "Thanks man, really appreciate it. Don't wanna look sloppy in front of the mister."

September lazily watches the stain grow. "I'm sure Paul won't mind, he seems to fancy the sweet types."

"You think he thinks I'm sweet?"

She gazes at Paul De Vis, who's wandering around the perimeter taking notes about a bomb that doesn't exist, probably.

“Who knows what Paul’s thinking, really.”

Paul stumbles, drops his pen, successfully picks up the pen. Then proceeds to drop his badge and pen on the grass.

Mina breathes. "Oh god, he's so dumb. Look at him. He's so dumb."

“Mhmm,” says September, who doesn’t need to look at him to know that.

"Hey Redmond," Mina says, coming abruptly back to herself, "What the hell are we still doing here? The robbers are at large. Shouldn't we go chase them?"

"We're on _standby,_ Mina. Only in case the investigative team finds any leads." He glances at his watch. "We've stood here 30 minutes. The robbers would've been long gone."

And Paul wanders even further off, eyes glued to the ground for traces of explosive powder the whole time. He passes obliviously under the police tape.

September groans, then yells, "Paul." No reply. _"Paul!"_ He drifts further still. "Oh for fuck's sake—”

Mina crams the last of her donut into her mouth. "I'll go get him," she says unclearly, and strides off after Paul.

  


In the opposite direction, Ben Dover scurries by with books in hand. September recognises him because he’s burned the sight of that towheaded boy into his mind.

Quietly, he reaches for the body camera clipped to his chest and turns it off. Ven’s gonna flip, but whatever. He’ll do first, explain later.

"Not so fast, kiddo, it’s dangerous here. Where are your parents?"

He's upon the boy at once, deftly snagging him by the back of his haversack.

“Are you lost—”

The boy's legs kick up and out from under him in a flourish, his torso _jerking back_ and sending him straight to the floor.

Wow. September hadn't even pulled that hard. Why does Monday have to be so goddamn extra.

"How _dare_ you!" he exclaims, and September is immediately struck by the accent he's putting on. Some kind of cocked-up British accent. "A cop? Assaulting a civilian? I could sue you!"

Bad accent aside, this is definitely Ben Dover. Except his glasses are a different colour — ultramarine instead of cyan. And all his books are different since, well, he left most of them behind last round.

"Stop talking nonsense—"

September's protest is cut short when he notices two actual civilians watching in horror from across the street. So he just glances down at Ben, who's still sprawled lazily over the ground, and frowns.

"I'm sorry. Are you alright, Mr Ben?" He says loud enough for his voice to carry. Grabs him by the shoulders and helps him to his feet just a little roughly.

"Mr. Ben? I'm afraid you are mistaken, officer. My twin brother's name is Ben. I'm Han, Han Dover.”

"Han—" September bites his lip, fuming.

Han gets up, every bit the angry, wronged unlucky passerby that he certainly isn’t. "I was just trying to get to class until you _obstructed_ me."

September’s next movement is extremely subtle — his hand casually dropping down to the cuffs at his belt as he hisses, "I have a warrant. You're under arrest for thievery and _obstruction_ of justice, Monday!"

"Monday?! It's not even a Monday, kind sir, it just happens to be a Thursday! An equally respectable day of the week!"

The boy evades September's grasp like water and — against all possible logic — slips _into_ the officer's space.

Puts his hand on September's cuffs.

"I can get out of your way whenever I please, officer," says Han, very close to his ear. "But first, I think you'd like to hear a message from my dear brother Ben."

"Monday, stop fooling—”

The cuffs click shut around September's wrists.

_“—around?!!"_

He tugs vainly. His face heats up. Monday's too close, way too close. The boy’s breath curls against September's ear, sending a chill down his skin.

"Mon— Monday, stop it—!"

The boy has to bite back a smile — who knew the hardass cop would react like _this?!_ — as he steps back, his hands over the cop's bound ones, mercifully hiding the cuffs from his colleagues and would-be observers.

"Mr Ben would like me to tell you," murmurs Han, and September stops struggling, "that he might have sent you to explore depths you may not be ready for."

He draws back to study the cop’s expression, but there’s nothing but disbelief.

Beat.

And then September is resolute when he says, "If there's anything I've learned on the force, it's that you'll never be truly ready for anything."

Han sighs. And then he smiles. He even laughs, just a little. "Somehow Ben knew you'd say that.”

"That's cheating," says September. He makes as if to tug his hands away, then thinks better of it — people are watching. _"This_ is cheating!"

Han Dover ignores him. "Things are going well, then? New leads?”

"Even if I had any I wouldn't tell you."

The tips of his ears are red.

"How did this become a _competition,_ officer?” His accent, however deplorable, is infuriatingly smooth. “My sweet brother would be gutted to hear about this. You don't _trust_ him?"

"I don't trust you or your brother or the madman behind your personas one bit—"

The rest of it is cut off by a strangled sound when Han reaches out to put a single, cool finger next to September's pinking ears.

"My brother reminds you to be careful. We’re sure they teach you that in the force too," he continues. "But he doubts, he really does, that you've dealt with anything like this."

September jerks his head back. He’s still looking uncomfortable enough to melt, the poor soul.

"Get something straight for me," he growls, "Do you want me chasing your half-baked clues around like a dog or not?"

"I can't make you do anything," replies Han. "Nor my brother. Nor the madman behind either of our eyes…"

His eyes are blue and cool.

"But I'm afraid we've all gone a little too far to stop now."

September's jaw tightens. He snatches both his hands from Han's grip.

Grabs his collar.

"You’re wrong! We’ve barely even started to crack the case, and — _Damn it, Monday,_ I can't do anything unless you _help_ me!"

All that's in September's head is the sleepless nights, the frustrated pacing, the numbers and clues that just _don't add up._ All the work of this infuriating thief with his infuriating mysteries tinted all shades of blue.

"I _want_ to solve this case! But I need you, Monday!"

Han's face is still.

Not placid. Not neutral.

Carefully still.

"I am helping you," he says. "More than you know."

He pulls his hand away, magicking the cuffs off September’s wrists with the barest of movements.

"You should be careful of sunlight," Han continues, brightly. "It gets in your eyes."

And he's gone.

  


September just stands there, lost, bewildered, confused, and frankly a little worried—

_—Monday has just taken all of September's plans with him. Undid all his progress. Gave him a bunch of bad jokes and only a cryptic warning this time, not even the faintest lead—_

"Hey, Redmond, didn't know you had a kid!"

"NO, he is NOT my kid," snaps September at Paul, stalking back to his spot in front of the entrance.

Sits down on the steps in a huff. Scowling hard.

Paul nudges Mina's arm. "W… What's up with the Lieutenant?"

"Nothing's up with me!" September says loudly, in a move suggesting something is definitely up with him. "Argh, I'm going insane! First he gives me leads and watches me chase them and _now_ he tells me I'm not ready for it."

"I wasn’t _really_ considering the bomb a lead, sir—"

"Not _you,_ Paul." September gets up. "Watch the place. I'm heading to the car. Need some time to think."

He slips into the driver’s seat and closes the door, but this doesn't stop Mina from parking herself back in her usual spot — blocking the whole window with her broad shoulders.

September lets out another groan. Could he request to redraw his lot with the universe? Why couldn't it have sent him a less cryptic, less whimsical bringer of riddles? —

 

— Crushed in September's hand is a paper note, folded three times over.

The top layer reads "EAT ME LATER."

The second layer reads "READ AT HOME."

September’s eyes immediately dart to his body camera, which blinks back up at him — _ah shit,_  he turned it back on when Dover left. Well, it’s too late now. He’ll just have to explain even more later.

Damn it, Ven. And  _damn it,_ Monday.

Folding the note once more, he stashes the note in the inner pocket of his trench coat and sighs. He’s really sighing a lot more than usual lately.

 _Sunlight?_ What can that possibly mean? Are the rooftops no longer safe for either of them? No way Monday could be expressing concern for his eyes, no.

By now he's just about thought himself into a knot. Lurching back outside, he sends Mina and Paul to patrol the perimeter.

"Watch out for anyone loitering around here. And pay attention to the rooftops."

"What's the point, robbers don't use rooftops as a getaway any more—"

"Just do as I say."

September himself stays at the entrance as his teammates disappear round the corner. Whenever Monday shows up things are bound to grow complicated.

All he has to do is wait.

 

And an hour passes but it's as he thought. It's none other than Dawn Marengo who shows up, camera in hand.

 _"Whoa,"_ she whistles, like encountering crime scenes at least three times a week won't ever dull the novelty for her. "Hey, officer! Fancy seeing you here."

September brightens, he can’t help it. "Hey, Dawn—"

A spark of light bounces off her camera.

_Sunlight._

Keeping his expression as neutral as he can, he says, "What brings you here? Another one of your exploits?" Clicks his tongue. "The robbers are gone, if you're wondering. You're late."

"Nah, I just go home this way,” replies Dawn, snapping a burst of photos like it’s a reflex. “Had a hunch you'd be around when I saw the police tape, though."

"You should probably change your route... or don't, if you want to be part of the fun."

Dawn laughs once, in that half-real half-cynical way only millennials can seem to muster. Finishing up with her camera, she rummages in her pocket and holds out a thumb drive. "Here."

September takes it with a nod. "What's in it, more photos?"

"Yeah. You asked me for more pictures of the rooftop guy, right? I'm not sure if they're all the same person, but seems like it."

"Ah, yeah. Thanks. How far back do these photos go?"

"Not too far... since the Pewter Mall robbery? Like, the one where they threw jewellery all over the mall and everything," Dawn smiles at that, amused. "I heard about it on Twitter and ran down. You might find something interesting there."

Oh, September’s sure he will. “Hope so too. Thanks—”

Before he can even finish before Dawn scurries off. Any further mulling is cut short when the chattering of his teammates floats by — no doubt about his alleged son, or bombs, or his son being the bomb or some madcap conspiracy about his son being an actual bomb… Better nip that in the bud before his blood pressure gets any worse. He shoves the thumb drive into his coat pocket and trudges over to check on them.

  


The day passes uneventfully after that. Finally, one harrowing debrief and one session of Ven Evasion later, September's finally home.

Home, if it could even be called home, is a moderately sized apartment along the edge of the city. It shakes when the freight trains pass and leaks during particularly horrid storms but it’s a decent place for a cop's salary and anyway, September kinda likes it.

The apartment’s really just somewhere to store his things. Like files and notes and things he’s learned from his time on the force, handwritten and filed away for _just in case._

He settles at his desk. Turns the thumbdrive in his fingers. What on earth will he see? Can it be trusted, especially after Monday’s warning?

 _Monday…_ He pulls the folded-up note from his pocket, slightly creased from the commute home.

Thumbdrive, or note. 

Somehow it feels awfully like being forced to take sides.

He goes with the note. Unfolding the note, its layers read—

“EAT ME LATER."

then "READ AT HOME."

and the third layer reads "CHECK FOR CAMERAS."

September's hands turn to ice.

Cameras? Here in his own home?

He throws down the note and searches. Thoroughly. No visible or suspected cameras. To be safe he draws the blinds too.

He comes back to the desk feeling somewhat let down, then notices writing on the fourth side.

_"Mr. Red, I regret that Marengo is the only help I can offer you at this point. Use her. Do not trust her. Finding the rest of their eyes might be the best way to reach the heart of the matter._

_Godspeed, Mr. Red. We will meet again._

_\- Blue."_

So two things:

  1. Monday and Marengo — Dawn — are on different sides.
  2. And unlike Monday, Marengo was on _“their’s”._



Judging from Monday's warnings, it’s safe to say September’s being watched as well. But by who?

_Is it Tempus?_

The warning feels closer. More intimate. Monday wrote _cameras_ … in his home? In his car? His office?

No. On his _uniform_.

Someone on the force — someone whom September knows, works with, sheds blood with — is caught up in this too. In other words, he can't spill a word of anything vaguely Monday-related. Not to Mina or Paul. Nor to Ven.

To anyone.

He glances at the thumbdrive.

_Use her, do not trust her._

He sticks the thumbdrive into his computer and as Dawn promised, comes up with a whole mess of pictures. Apparently, this is every picture she has taken with the mysterious masked thief.

Like he thought, many are too vague to identify. After all not every hooligan on a rooftop can be Monday. But each photo positions itself at some crime scene or another.

Guerrero Plaza, Tulip Avenue, even the Monte Carlo a few weeks ago —

And the infamous Pewter Mall.

There’s the unmistakable silhouette of Monday Blue — black all over, a hint of navy in the hair, a blotch of black and gold around the eyes — leaping out of the building, into the air.

A beautiful shot, to be sure.

There’s another shot dated to that day. A warehouse that September doesn't recognise, deep in one of the industrial districts. The warehouse is framed artistically, sunlight reflecting off its edges. A photo trip, perhaps.

But there's a figure who's nearly cut off by the edge of the picture, seemingly ducking around a corner, and the sunlight also reflects off his black and gold mask.

Black silhouette, gold trim, movements lithe and nimble — everything about Monday Blue.

His gaze shifts from the figure to the warehouse behind.

There’s nothing Monday could possibly want from a rundown place like this.

_Use her. Do not trust her._

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will use this new information properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B&E — 'Breaking and Entering', referring to burglary (where the main crime is theft, with no immediate fatalities involved)


	6. Chapter 6

"What are you doing here, Temby? Don't you have work?"

Junie always moved to a tempo September can’t keep up with. Trying not to look spooked by her sudden appearance, he hands her another paper bag. "Here."

“Oh, _god,_ Temby, what are you doing now?”

"Hey, I'm not due for duty until 10am, cut me some slack, can you?"

“The last time I cut you some slack, you got stabbed,” says June. “I had to help you change your dressing for a week.”

They sit. September sulks huffily. "It was just a flesh wound."

“Accompanied by trauma,” she reminds him pointedly. Her voice softens. "How’s the case?"

“Just blindly chasing more new leads, what's new?”

"That's not good," smiles June. “So. You want me to help you again?”

“Surprisingly, no. Today you get a free pass.”

The conversation fades. September clears his throat. "So, June, how are—"

“Quit it already, Temby, you hate small talk.”

“But I hardly know what you're up to, Junie. Like… who's the latest suitor?”

“You jealous?” June teases, then when September doesn't respond, smiles for real. Gently. "I appreciate the gift, truly. But maybe you should be going in to work now."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

They get up, and September's fingers twitch.

“Hey, Junie, um, just, be careful, alright? The people I'm tracking, they're dangerous, and I don't know how deep the rabbit hole goes. For all I know they might have eyes in your office too, so just.” He gestures vaguely. "Maybe… screen your employees from time to time, yeah?"

"Don't make it sound like a _mafia,_ Temby, you're scaring me!" June gasps playfully and September rolls his eyes.

“I get the hint, you think I'm being paranoid. But _be safe,_ alright?”

“I’ll be as safe as I can, Temby.”

June walks him to the elevator and then watches him from the office window as she always does. The man crosses the street, casts a final glance back before getting in his car.

She looks down at the bag in her hand. Probably that bottle of wine she talked about on Facebook last week.

"Oh, September. You make things so hard."

 

September spends the last thirty minutes before his shift checking his allotted (limited) arsenal, polishing his favorite glock and making sure the bullets are in order.

Casually, he lets his gaze wander, relearning the locations of all the CCTVs.

Right on cue, Ven strides into the armoury. Not because he needs any weapons, but because he knows September will be there.

"Redmond," he begins, wasting no time, "I was going through the camera footage from yesterday's call at Portsdown. Couldn't help but notice you failed to report an unexplained pause in your recording.”

A bullet drops to the ground. September draws a long breath, then takes his time to pick it up.

Ven swipes a hand across his face, giving the lieutenant a chance. “I'm sure you were planning to explain yourself, and weren't trying to avoid me all day."

"I uh, yeah, there was a new visitor to the scene yesterday. So I turned the camera off for a bit. Just an… old friend. Tried to look for you after the patrol but you weren't at your table.” September inspects a notch in his gun. “… Sir."

"Right, of course, of course.” A pause. “How about the note, then?"

September sounds confused when he says, "The note?"

Ven stares at September, who knows the look well. It's not that Ven suspects him of anything illegal. Just of doing _something._  "You know the one."

"Uh… Why do you want to know about the note?"

Is that an edge of defensiveness in September's voice?

"You turn off your bodycam without explanation, and the next thing captured is you in the car, with a note that says 'Read at home'?" Ven sighs. "It's _policy,_ Redmond. I need details."

"Everything's policy with you." September looks away. "It's nothing, I swear."

There’s no fighting Ven in one of these moods, and both of them know it. September scowls and sticks his hands in his pockets irritably.

"Is this what we're doing now, chief? Spying on each other? Go tell off Mina for eating while on a code four patrol."

"I'll chew her ear off in due time, Redmond, don't change the subject. I am your boss. Spying on you is my job. And I won't need to if you stop being _difficult_ and give me the details that you are meant to."

"I'm not being difficult. This doesn't have any bearing on the Portsdown case."

“Redmond—”

 _“Alright,_ take it easy already.” September extracts his hand from his pocket, holding out the crumpled note sourly. "You're welcome, _sir._ Says a lot about our trust."

"Geez, Redmond, I really just needed you to open your mouth and talk to me, but if you insist…”

Before September can react, Ven takes the note and opens it.

 

_To my cutest SEPTEMBER RED ♡_

_Half a year and seven modules later, I'm home ♡ And back close to you!!!! I spent most of it freezing my buttocks off and watching couples making out in the lecture theatre and wishing I had kissed you before I left, but I realised my mistake was sooo easy to fix. Did you enjoy it?_

_(A lip print.)_

_Let's meet again. You know how to find me ;)_

_With love and longing (and plenty of lust), your Ben. ♡_

 

"Jesus Christ," mutters Ven through gritted teeth as he hands the note back and swiftly exits the room.

"You asked!" yells September after him.

"This is oversharing, Redmond! _Oversharing!"_

"I hardly know the guy! For the record if this was on camera someone would have me _fired!"_ September sticks his head out the door and calls, "I think maybe it's the uniform!"

He’s too slow, Ven is gone. "That's what you get for spying, Ven." September turns back to his firearm kit, unable to bite back a grin.

But then—

"Yo Redmond, you know I never actually knew you were gay?”

September whips around. It’s Mina, sauntering through the door polishing off the last chunk of her sandwich.

September splutters. He drops the bullet again. "Wh— No! That's not—"

“Should’ve noticed the _signs._ Man. Kinda disappointed in myself, honestly."

"Look, the guy we met at Portsdown was just some random guy, and the note was—"

He bites his lip before he can say _fake._ Mina, unfortunately, has taken this the wrong way and is grinning widely at him.

"Stop giving me that look, It's, just, some… some random dude who keeps trying to get into my pants. I hardly know him."

"Nah, you can say what you want but I was there yesterday, remember? You were getting intimate in front of _everyone,_ man. Can’t believe I thought he was your _kid._  Thought he was real young at first, he’s got such a pretty face—”

She spies the note crumpled in September's hand and immediately grabs for it.

“What on earth did you tell Ven, anyway? His face was frickin’ _scarlet."_

"NO! It's not for reading!"

Mina catches people by surprise every once in a while — this is one of them. Moving a little too fast, she’s unfolded the note while dodging September around the various tables in the armory.

"Mina, I swear to fucking god, if you don't put it down right now—"

Mina not only doesn’t put it down immediately but then says, in the loudest voice possible, "To the cutest _September Red…_ oh my _GOD."_

Finally she gives up the note good-naturedly — rather, she’s folding over laughing and unable to fight September when he snatches the note back.

"For the record I had a girlfriend."

"You _had_ one.” She wipes her eyes. "Don't worry, Redmond, I won't judge. People change."

"I didn’t — We didn't break up because I'm turning gay! You can’t just… _change_ into a gay! Come on, Mina." He gestures at himself. "Do I look like the kind of person who would sleep with a dude?"

Mina gives him a once-over with her eyes.

She's silent.

And then she snorts.

"What's that supposed to mean, Mina."

Stifling laughter, Mina sits down and starts prepping her own equipment.

"Hey Redmond, does this mean I can ask you about romantic advice now? I'm _dying_ for some, I walked home with Paul last night but he wouldn't stop talking about frogs."

September collapses into the chair opposite her, more than a little thankful for the change in conversation.

"I mean, frogs can be pretty interesting."

"So you think I should bone up on frog facts? Maybe I could get him a frog. We could keep it in the break room or something. Feed it worms." She sighs. "Nah, who am I kidding, today he'll probably go on about dinosaurs instead. I can't get him a dinosaur."

"Toy dinosaur then?" He pauses. "Bring him to the zoo."

"Let's not kid ourselves, he'd probably wander into one of the enclosures and get eaten by an alligator or something. The aquarium, though. That’s an option. Bet even the sharks won’t get him if he falls in, he’s too pure to die." Mina snaps her fingers, grinning. "Thanks, Redmond,” she says, as if she hadn’t just talked herself into the solution she was after, “Who knew you had a way with romance?"

September snorts. "I'm not _that_ bad with romance, alright. My partner was happy with me… I hope.” A pause. "If you guys do get attached, just…" he shrugs. "Treasure the little things."

Mina gives him the most incredulous look. "Okay, relationship guru. What the hell happened there?"

"Nothing much happened. Which… kinda was the problem, I think." He sighs. "Why am I even sharing it with you, huh? Paul's nothing like my ex."

"Because," Mina says with a grin, "you want to. Deep down inside. You’re a big gross ol’ softie, Mr Bossman."

September stares.

Mina puts her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, attentive.

Leans in. Wriggles her eyebrows.

Finally, September relents. "I was too caught up with my job. Made the wrong choice too many times. I just told her I loved her, and assumed it'd be enough. It wasn't."

Mina gazes with wide eyes.

"No, Mina. That’s it. Story time’s over.”

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Mina says, rather callously, though her expression softens. "Don't sweat it man, at least you realise it now." Then, coyly, "You'll do better with Ben, right?"

September gives her a dirty look. He is _not_ going to reopen this can of worms. "Tell me, Mina, why're you all head over heels for Paul?"

"He's cute! Cute _and_ dumb. Oh my god.”

Mina slouches a little more dreamily,

“He is _so_ dumb.”

and takes the bait, hook line sinker rod and all.

“So, okay, I don't know much about him, but with some people you just kinda want to, you know? Love at first sight? That kinda thing. Like who the hell _is_ this guy? What's his deal?”

September gives Mina's words some thought. "And you want to know if they're thinking about you too, right? You _want_ them to think about you."

Mina shrugs. "Yeah, I guess? I don't really think that deep, though. I just like thinking about him.”

"Huh. That's interesting. I think Paul appreciates that, having you look out for him." September grumbles at his gun. "Every time I take him on patrols he always seems so uncomfortable, but when he's with you he's laughing and smiling away. As transparent as water."

“He thinks you don’t ‘get’ him,” Mina smiles.

“He’s right. He’s too spacey.”

She fixes September with a look, like he’s just offended the queen and she is the queen of queens and offended through hell and back. "You’re nuts to not see how cute— Okay. Fine. What kind of people do you get, then?"

"My partner used to be real sharp. Going on about protecting things. Always so picky about doing things her way, protecting the _sanctity of the press_ or whatever that means. It was cute. She was that kind of person,” he says with a smile. "A person who had something to lose."

Mina stares at her gun. September feels the mood change and _shit,_ fuck him and his big mouth. This is why talking about _anyone’s_ feelings is never a good idea—

"I hope I don't lose Paul," Mina says softly.

September reaches over and gives her a fond pat on the shoulder. "Hey. There's no point worrying about things like that. You're here now and so is he. Make sure he knows how you feel so you don't regret it."

"Thanks, dad," Mina replies wryly. "Not like you aren't only a few years older than me or anything."

September doesn’t miss a beat, "You are still only a tiny child to me, Mina."

Mina laughs. Then more seriously, asks, "So what's the assignment today, boss?"

September glances over his shoulder and Mina — who brightens like she’s thinking, _ooh, a secret?_ — leans forward even further on her elbows.

"I’ve got a lead on a case I’m working, but it's… not much. A warehouse at the end of Sunway Pier. I need you and Paul to patrol and cover me as I search inside. It should be quick."

"You know I'm always down for being a shittier cop than I already am," she grins. "But like, what's the plan? We just fuck off from our normal route? Go after hours?"

"Knew I picked the right people. Yeah, we fuck off from our usual route. We’re down to patrol the Sunway district. So we slip off to the pier for a tick, nobody notices."

“Hey okay I’ll tell Paul,” says Mina, "HEY PAUL, WE'RE GONNA— aaaah, _shit,"_ Mina runs a hand over her face. "Misdirection, Redmond. Misdirection."

Over Paul's muffled _“Whaaaaat? Ah, jeez, I'm coming,”_ September whispers, "If you want misdirection… yell about lunch or something!"

"Alriiiiight good idea HEY PAUL," Mina yells again, "DO YOU WANT WINGS OR BURGERS FOR LUNCH."

She winks at Redmond, who smacks himself in the face.

Faintly a reply, _"I thought we were going on patrol?"_

September shakes his head but yells back, "WELL WE HAVE TO EAT DON'T WE, JUST GET OVER HERE."

The sound of padding feet. Paul finally comes in cradling something in his palms. "Hi boss, and… _hey,_ Mina."

His voice is softer than usual. September immediately busies himself with his kit and pretends not to look.

"I have something for you... I hope you like it." Paul hands Mina a figurine of a frog, painted shiny violet. "I know you like purple, and this isn't really the poison dart frog you seemed to have interest in but I made it with you in mind."

Mina's speechless. A rare occurrence.

"Paul, I........... this is _so_ sweet, _thank_ you." She opens her breast pocket and slips the frog inside so it peeks out. "Look, it can come with us!"

Paul's face lights up. "Ahh... I'm glad."

He sits down beside her, radiating happiness. They both are practically buzzing with delight. To September’s surprise, Paul blurts out, "Hey boss, if we're hiring, let's get a frog on the team."

"One more reason to piss Ven off about the budget? Sure." September bites back a laugh. "Mina volunteers to feed it worms."

"Oh _hell_ yes," Mina rubs her hands together. "Wait, do frogs even eat worms? I have no idea."

"Well,” says Paul, one finger raised, “It really depends on what kind of frog we're going to hire. Most frogs eat a variety of foods, not limited to worms and insects. Many cartoons actually created a misconception that frogs only eat bugs. See, they’re hardy creatures that have evolved to be omnivorous and some bullfrogs can even eat small animals like mice and—"

 _"Paul,"_ September deadpans.

"Right, uh, w— worms, worms are okay." He pauses thoughtfully. "Speaking of worms, I want fries for lunch."

"Yeah, about that." September leans closer. "We'll have lunch and then stop by Sunway Pier to look over the warehouses, okay? You and Mina can patrol."

"Uh, sure," says Paul. "So fries?"

"Fries it is," Mina agrees, looking at September again and winking horribly. She enjoys this a little too much.

"Right, fries, yes. And under no circumstances will Ven know about this,” he says to them quietly. “I don't want him chewing me out."

"Wait,” Paul says, “This is illegal?"

And September replies like he’s prepared for this his entire life. "We are the police, we are legal."

"But we’re—"

"Chill, Paul. If Redmond says it's alright, it's alright." Mina finishes with her prep and gets up. "Besides, if anything happens just tell Ven he started it, like always."

Paul stands with her. "Oh, good idea—"

"Hey," grumbles September. "What happened to team unity?"

"Team _what?"_ asks Paul innocently as Mina singsongs, "We _are_ a team. A great team. We follow the leader and the leader takes care of his kids when everyone gets in trouble," Mina stretches as she walks to the door, Paul in tow.

Now September really can’t force down the fond smile. They’re definitely straight up morons, but they’re good morons.

He does one check of his equipment before turning to leave.

Some hesitation later, he grabs another gun and an extra combat knife before leaving the room.

Time to find out what the warehouse holds in store.


	7. Chapter 7

“Alright kids, everyone out.”

September parks the car a block away from the Sunway warehouse, much to the bewilderment of his two grown children in the back. 

"We're not there yet," says Paul.

"Of course not,” replies September, setting the car to idle. “We can't park our only vehicle outside a warehouse that might be dangerous, that's all."

With that he dismisses them for a perimeter check (“No shooting at anything until I say so"), turns off his bodycam, and edges towards the gate.

Abandoned, lock busted, not a CCTV in sight, it’s a wonder the place isn’t already vandalised or broken by unruly teens. It’s too dark to make out what's inside. One last glance at the rooftops to make sure nobody's watching before he slips in through an unlocked side gate and just like that, he’s in.

One deep breath and he enters the shadow of the doorway, gun locked and loaded, ready to fire at a moment's notice. 

Every footstep echoes.

Crates are stacked at regular intervals throughout, but it's still strange for a warehouse of this size to be this empty. Especially in a busy industrial district. 

There’s a narrow balcony ringing the three back walls. Shining a flashlight catches wispy cobwebs and nothing else but dust. 

September frowns. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he knows this warehouse has to contain  _ something. _ Monday wouldn’t have been here otherwise. The coast seems to be clear after a brief once-over, so he heads to the nearest stack of crates and begins his search.

He starts by testing the lock and checking for any loose bolts on the crate. It's not uncommon that a small door or entrance is cut into the sides, either (It was how he busted a smaller drug operation few years ago). If something's out of place, it's impossible to hide from a careful search. 

Like he told Ven, he just needs some time.

 

Green eyes watch an infrared camera feed of the warehouse.

"He came alone," the woman says into her headset. "What now?"

In response comes a burst of static, then the voice of a man in his prime.  _ "Find out all you can about my prodigal child. Then you may toy with the lieutenant. But I want him alive to use." _

"Understood.”

There's a lot to find out — with the planted photos, one would expect a cop with a promising lead to bring a team to arrest a thief on the loose.

But Redmond came alone, leaving his subordinates to cover him outside.

Why the secrecy?

What is he expecting?

The woman presses a button on her screen. 

 

September can’t find anything of note in the crates — they mainly contain an assortment of microwavable kitchen tupperware and the shells of dead insects.

Then, a sound bouncing around the empty room.

Like someone falling down.

September whips around, startled, gun raised, eye down the muzzle. Straining for the slightest of movements.

_ Nothing. _

He edges towards the crate. Someone’s in there.

"Conrad Police Department. Who's there, show yourself."

There's nothing for a long moment. Then comes a soft laugh — high, echoey, male. 

September tenses, then lowers his gun slightly. "Monday, seriously.” The distanced stiffness of his voice has faded somewhat. “You really just like watching me bumble around don't you."

 

"Monday?" mutters the woman into her headset, as she cues in the next sound: soft, sparse footsteps every now and again. 

_ ("Hey, don't ignore me, asshole," buzzes the pixelated cop on her screen, his outlines shifting with the sensor’s whims.) _

Finally, in the woman's earpiece: a low chuckle of approval.  _ “… Ah, Monday, as in, Monday Blue. Seems you can't erase a love for wordplay. This is a very good development." _

"Should I keep him talking?"

_ (“Monday, stop fooling around already.”) _

_ “No, we’re done here. You know what to do.”  _

 

Inside the warehouse, September slows to a stop. 

Running around, tittering, hiding… this isn’t Monday. He either shows himself or not at all.

It dawns on him then. Monday, the lover of showy and elaborate setups — September's gut was right. Monday wouldn’t have anything to do with a warehouse like this.

The photograph is fake.

This is a trap, and he’s walked right into it.

He sprints back to the entrance. The handle turns, the door rattles, but doesn’t give. “Fuck!”

His radio crackles.  _ "Hey Redmond, we've got some guys here coming towards the warehouse — oh  _ shit  _ they're starting a fight. Redmond!  _ What _ is going on?!" _

September shoves at the door.  _ Locked. _ More dust floats down. 

Another breath to calm himself and he clicks the radio on. "I'm kinda occupied right now, Mina. Just stay safe. Permission to fire, kill on sight."

Turns the radio off.

_ Okay, Redmond. Keep close to the wall. Look for signs of a camera, a peephole, something. You came here to get a lead, you will leave with a lead. _

Finally he turns to face the empty warehouse. It’s so  _ huge _ when he’s trapped in here in the dark and all alone. "Alright guys, the game's over, you got me. I know things you want to hear. Just come out, and let’s talk."

 

_ ("There's nothing to talk about," the woman mutters under her breath, lining her eye up with an infrared scope.) _

 

Mina hears a gunshot from inside the warehouse. 

_ Redmond’s in there. _ She runs to the door.

"What the  _ fuck _ was that? Redmond, we're getting you out. Redmond?  _ Redmond?  _ You — oh  _ god.” _ On the door that was definitely unlocked hangs a heavy metal padlock. Mina yanks at it vainly. Then raises her gun. “Who the heck locked you in?" 

It takes two shots to break it because her hand’s shaking  _ (fuck, fuck, Redmond, hang on) _ but Paul takes out the final goon with a deft headlock leaving her to swing the door open —

September hauls himself through the doorway, half-crumpled on the ground, white hands clutching a dark red hole in his leg. 

“Redmond, what—”

"There's a sniper," he grits out. 

Mina and Paul don’t even hesitate before dragging him out and regrouping behind the wall.

Safe for now.

"Redmond, oh my god," Paul whispers. "What's going on—"

"Are, are all the others down?" Redmond gasps.

Paul nods. "I got the last one, but the sniper's still in there."

"Forget the sniper. Let's get outta here. F-Fuck." September leans his head against the wall, obviously trying not to look at his leg. His voice is faint when he murmurs, "I’m, I’m bleeding…” 

"Yeah, yeah, I see it, I’m on it." Mina whips off her overshirt to bind his leg. "What the hell, Redmond? Who the hell are these people?"

"Tempus," mumbles Redmond incoherently, closing his eyes tight. He looks pale.

"They are WHO?" Paul yelps, then whispers, "What the  _ heck _ Redmond?"

"It’s Tempus, the crime ring that’s super not real and super illegal. Just like us —  _ ngh,” _ Redmond forces through his teeth as Mina tightens another loop around his leg, “They’ve got guns and they’ll come to get you and they  _ will get you _ if you don't  _ shut up right now." _

Paul stares. "I think he's joking," he says softly to Mina. "He's joking, right?"

"Only I make jokes like that, not Redmond," says Mina, finally completing the tourniquet and applying pressure. "Call the meds—”

“No ambulances,” gasps September through the pain. "Help me up. We gotta… we gotta get back to the car."

Pulling his leg from Mina’s grasp Redmond struggles to his feet. Paul immediately slips September's arm around his shoulders. "Jeez, we’re cops, aren’t we allowed to call an ambulance?"

"Yeah? With a sniper around? To threaten innocent paramedics? While we’re doing illegal shit? Sure.”

“You’re too frickin’ sassy when you’re hurt,” Mina says, supporting Redmond’s other side. Then closer to September's ear, "And why the hell are you going after the mafia alone?"

"Yes yes, it’s big mistake I know, I don't need that from you too."

They fumble their way back to the car. Mina half expects the sniper to pursue them, but somehow they make it without incident. Paul manhandles his boss roughly into the back seat and Redmond slumps down, exhausted. 

Mina’s starting the car when they hear from the back, "Guys, fuck. I'm sorry."

"Hey, it was an idiot thing but we agreed to do the idiot thing. Now we gotta get you to not die," Mina replies, easing the car into reverse. "And hope that Ven suddenly takes emergency leave for the next month or so."

September lets out a louder, more anguished groan at the mention of Ven.

Paul glances back at the passenger seat, where September has flung an arm over his eyes. "Seriously though, boss, if you want, I can slip him some laxatives—"

"Do NOT poison the chief inspector." A pause. "Though maybe for Christmas you can."

"I was just suggesting," says Paul. "Plus, yeah, what Mina said. And we even got fries and everything.” That makes September snort despite himself. “So what're we gonna tell the chief?"

"You guys don't worry about that. I'll handle it."

"Got it," Mina grins from the driver's seat.  _ "Very _ happy to leave that to you. But we got your back, okay? Remember that."

"Never doubted that for a moment."

"Wow, boss, I didn't know you could be sentimental. You should get shot more often,” says Paul, genuinely impressed.

And as September levels him a death glare, turns back to face the road. 

"Or not. It's cool. We're good. No more bullets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CCTV — 'Closed Circuit Television', a system of cameras that records store/building activity, used primarily for surveillance


	8. Chapter 8

September's wound isn't life-threatening, but pretty threatening to the livelihood of a cop. A clean shot without chipping or breaking the bone, as it'd come in at an angle and gone straight out the other side. The doctors call it a stroke of sheer luck — or immense skill, which is far more likely.

Recovery will take a few weeks at the very least, and in the meantime it’s going to keep hurting because the nerve’s been _fucked._

The surgery went without a hitch and now he’s left to simmer in a million painkillers and thoughts of what'll happen next, to his team and to his own progression on Monday's case.

And they don't allow pizza delivery in hospital this soon after surgery.

Absentmindedly, he realises there’s no way of contacting Monday. He could actually do with some of his insufferable company.

Unfortunately, there’s no Monday to be had. It’s not even a Monday at this point. It’s a Thursday.

Instead, there is a Ven. After hours end on the day September comes out of surgery, the chief inspector comes down to his ward with his most _withering_ expression yet.

"I've taken statements from de Vis and Cara," he says without preamble. "It seems they're now both in on your college gossip story."

"Not even a _How're you feeling?_ or a _You feeling okay?"_ September pushes himself upright by the elbows, a wry grin hanging off his numb face.

"You're hooked up to a morphine IV, I can make a fair estimate."

"It’s not just a gossip thing any more. Sir, I take full responsibility for everything. Mina and Paul, they were just following my orders."

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ven replies simply, taking a seat next to the bed. "Anyway, I'm here to hear your version of events. Because I have to. Not because I trust you to tell me the truth."

"This time's different."

“Is it?”

"I need you to believe me, sir. It's bigger than I imagined, there's a good chance Tempus is involved, and they're feeding us false info. I got lured into a trap…"

September takes a breath.

Then he starts from the top. Explaining his encounters with Fortnight and Yesterday, stitching them to Dawn, the photographs of the figure with the black mask and the mysterious warehouse.

"I was chasing the thief but I stumbled on something completely different. By some sheer luck, I found out about Tempus. They’re still in Conrad, active. Waiting for us in the warehouse."

"An elaborate tale, Redmond," Ven says flatly.

But his face, surprisingly, lacks contempt.

He's seriously thinking about it.

"Too elaborate," he says, "for you to have made up. Your lies tend to unravel after the first twist or so, and I know you're not the sort to take that as an insult."

He gets up. "But who knows, maybe I'll be proven wrong today. I'll be sending a team down to that warehouse to investigate, and I'll be leading it myself."

"Today?" September glances at the clock, then at the drips feeding into his veins.

At Ven. "Let me come."

Ven looks at him. _"Can_ you?"

"I have to."

September starts pulling the needle from his arm, steely determination in his gaze.

Then steps out of the bed — forgetting his leg’s in a cast — and sprawls over the floor.

Ven sighs a neverending sigh at the officer at his feet. "Do I have to wheel you out?"

September pushes himself upright, rubbing a sore elbow.

"I would appreciate a wheelchair but…” he makes a face. "Can I be pushed by someone who's not you?"

"Get some crutches, Redmond," Ven says as he leaves the room.

 

 

About three hours later, the police roll up at the suspicious warehouse.

September Redmond is, after all, in a wheelchair. Apparently, Chief Pemberton's adviser decided that bending employee welfare regulations was not worth making September hobble.

There were already some officers on the premises, doing some preliminary interviews and surveys.

One of them comes up to brief Ven, to which he reacts with a certain amount of fascination.

September himself is fascinated by the sight of the warehouse itself.

Because _what the fuck._ This can't be the same warehouse … It’s bustling with activity, teeming with trucks and shiny boxes and crates ready to be exported. The exact kind of warehouse one would suspect in the middle of a busy industrial district.

September's gripping the armrests of his wheelchair with unmasked horror as workers push styrofoam boxes of fish past him. The place reeks of seafood, flakes of scales strewn across the tarmac.

At first glance it seems that nobody’s paying them any attention, but it takes a deeper look to recognise the dirty glances sent their way. The cars crowded around the entrance make navigation by truck doubly hard, and they’ve got trucks coming in and out every moment —

The officers are out of place, unwanted, and in the way.

September turns to Ven, confused, frustrated, "Something's wrong. Order a search. Get the forensic team in and swab the place, there'll be a concealed room, or some blood—”

Ven hands September a sheaf of papers, cutting him off. "These are the warehouse's operations and stock records over the past six months. Not a single gap or anomaly. And _especially_ not in the past few days. They've also volunteered all their security footage for the same period, whereas your team's body cams were, incidentally, not recording for the entire reported incident."

September grabs the stack and flips to yesterday's date, then the day before. "No, this — this has to be forged. There's no way—"

"Tell me, Redmond. Was this really worth shooting yourself in the foot over?"

"I didn’t — There was a sniper!" September snarls, "I wouldn't have wounded myself for no reason! I am literally the last person who'd shoot himself. You know that."

Ven drops an evidence bag in Redmond's lap, right on his injured leg. Ignoring September’s wince, Ven mutely waits for him to pick up the bag.

The officer’s hands go white.

It's the bullet extracted from September's leg — a bullet that September certainly recognises.

A _police-issued_ shell.

Ven raises his eyebrow — no words necessary.

"Someone in the force set this up. Or the sniper was using a police rifle. Or someone was tampering with the evidence." Every sentence comes out weaker than the last. "I was here with Paul and Mina, and the place was deserted… We were ambushed, and—”

"I wonder if the morphine could be getting to you," Ven cuts in. "or if you're deliberately fabricating testimony and colluding with your teammates to waste investigative resources."

The rest of September's protests die in his mouth.

Ven goes on, "Why would you do that, exactly? To cripple the force, Redmond? Perhaps… to distract from something else? You have been acting strangely these past few weeks, Redmond. Misappropriating department funds, spreading rumours of a defunct crime ring and now going so far as to hurt yourself? All for what?"

“Ven, I swear—”

"There are two possibilities I see here, Redmond. I suggest you choose wisely."

The threat in Ven’s eyes is finally enough to make September fall silent and stay silent, enough for Ven to infer that the lieutenant had finally acquiesced.

Ven nods slowly.

"Pack it up," he barks to the force at large. "We've wasted enough time here."

Then in September’s ear — "You're suspended for misdemeanour and insubordination. You’re fortunate you are as wounded as you are, Redmond, because you’ll only need to do desk duty for a few weeks after your recovery period instead of two full months like I’d planned.”

"You've got to be fucking kidding —"

“You are _very_ fortunate, Redmond,” Ven says again. September sucks in a breath. “And pray you don’t gamble with luck again."

 _Suspended._ Just when things were getting interesting. But at least he’s not discharged. Things could’ve gone a lot worse. He’ll get a second chance when he’s back on the force.

For now he just needs to suck it up and stay out of trouble.

September’s voice is very soft when he says, "Understood, sir."

"Luckily your badge and gun are already among your personal effects, so I don't have to take it from you." Ven allows himself a bit of a grin. "I don't know if your fragile heart could stand the humiliation."

He walks off to oversee the departure.

Once Ven is out of earshot September growls, "That lowlife, stuck-up, selfish fuck. A straight-up shit ass cop. God. _Fuck._ I'm gonna kill him one day I swear to fucking — "

He takes a deep breath, then to the cop who’d come up to push his wheelchair, says, "This stays between us, right?"

"Uh huh," says the cop with some trepidation. Then, "Tough break."

"No shit." September slumps in his chair. "Right. Whatever. Time to go back and get suspended."


	9. Chapter 9

During Redmond's suspension, the Pewter Mall thief makes another appearance at the Cinnabar Avenue music shop, stealing the entire stock of brass instruments and three clarinets. The squad on duty arrives to the thief carting his loot away on the back of a speeding garbage truck.

Official records state that the thief found himself, without explanation, "disappointed".

 

When Redmond ends his suspension, confined to desk duty for a few more weeks, he may notice something on the window when he enters his office, when the sun shines at a certain angle.

The word _sorry,_ written into the window's smeary surface.

 

To September's dismay, his active duty suspension does not extend to the officers' ball.

When he first joined the force September was very vocal about this event. A waste of time and resources, and honestly, he'd rather spend his energy cleaning the office floors with a toothbrush. (Doesn't mean he did it though.)

But he’s on thin ice with his captain so he can’t afford to make a fuss this year. And he can’t quite bear to, given his teammates-slash-children are _so_ __in_ vested _in it this time round — a week before the ball, Paul drops by September's office with a box of painkillers in exchange for some advice. "Hey boss, you think I should ask Mina out to the ball?"

"Where did this come from?" September asks, doing his best to feign surprise.

"Well, I mean, I haven't told anyone yet… but I kinda like Mina," Paul mumbles, sheepish. "I think. I don't know. She's… cool, and I don't know if she is interested in people like me—"

"Oh, just take a risk." September nods firmly. "Ask her out. Buy her flowers. A pendant. The whole deal. All eggs in the basket."

"She doesn't like eggs.”

 _Of course._ "All frogs in the hole then."

Paul turns red as a poison dart frog — they apparently come in a variety of colours, according to De Vis himself — and eventually leaves with the number to September's favorite florist. Which leaves September alone in his office, staring at the photocopied letter informing all officers of their attendance to the ball… with a formal invite for him and a plus one.

(Not like he has one, right?)

 

Eventually the day of the ball arrives and September is Not Happy about it. Walking still hurts, and he can't sit for the entire time even if it pains him to stand. At least the ballroom has a bar at the far end, so he just hovers there and tries to drown out his boredom with a thin haze of alcohol.

He’s in his best suit and a red tie (not the one that June had picked for him but a similar shade) and he blends in for the most part. If not for a very slight limp — the alcohol helps with that too.

"Stunning tie, sir," says a lilting voice by his ear. "What's a nice chap like you doing alone at the bar?"

He’d recognise that tenor anywhere. With a sidelong look, September eyes the young man who drapes himself on the adjacent stool, flicking soft brown hair out of his now-unspectacled eyes. Not very descript at all, but it’s the minute changes that make the perfect disguise — particularly the black suit and tie that in some lights glistens the darkest blue.

"Thank you, _sir,”_ deadpans September. “Just, you know, avoiding social interaction with the drunk rabble on the dance floor. So, can I have the pleasure of your name? … Again?"

"Call me whatever you want… as long as you call me tonight."

Ben Dover has the audacity to wink. September gives him the deadest stare.

"So, Mr Tonight. What brings you here?”

"It's the officers' ball!" Ben replies casually. "I'm here as a plus one, of course! Strapping young man, don't know if you've seen him around… broad shoulders, flawless poker face 100% of the time, an _astonishing_ tie."

He looks September up and down, sees how he leans on one leg and not the other. His face sobers.

“How are things?”

“Fucked.” September downs his drink and orders another.

"I can imagine,” Ben continues. “You must be very brave."

September turns to him, studying him head on. A faint smile teases the corners of his eyes despite his stony expression; he’s surprised. “Wow. You can actually… not be a dick."

Ben laughs. "That's the first time I've ever seen your face move, Septie. Besides a few moments of sweet, maddening frustration. I am _fully_ satisfied for the night."

September’s smile is gone. "If that's all you're here for, I'm going to ask you to leave."

Ben’s expression grows softer. "Let me make it up to you."

"Make it up to me how."

Ben raises an eyebrow and ventures, with more than a bit of hesitation — "Perhaps a dance?"

If September senses the subtle note of vulnerability, he doesn't say anything. One final glance at his untouched gin and he steps off the stool (still favouring one leg, Ben notices), and offers his hand palm up.

Ben takes September's hand and off they go.

It's a fairly slow dance. Which is fortunate for Redmond, perhaps, who certainly hasn't danced for a while.

September leads and Ben follows naturally.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Ben says, sotto voce. "Why don't you tell me about your troubles?"

"You should've showed up sooner," September murmurs. From this close Ben's eyes really are an enrapturing shade of blue. "Troubles, huh. Well, since the raid on the Portsdown warehouse I've been called dad, gay, a druggie, and emotionally fragile."

September's grip tightens around Ben's. For just the briefest of seconds pain flashes across September's face. The lieutenant shifts his weight and Ben's eyes widen as September holds him tighter — concern? fear? — but it's gone shortly after.

"I'm sorry," he says, sincerely. Then, "I understand the other three, but who would call you a _druggie?"_

"Wow, _thanks."_  September crooks his head. "Ven Pemberton, asshole Chief Inspector. Silver's not a good color on him."

Ben cranes his head over briefly. "Oh god, you're so right. Washes him right out. He's pasty enough without the suit."

“Yeah, it’s worse when you look at him for hours. Oh, wait, there’s Amelia Sanchez and Jacob Parker, they’re part of the other squad. Uh, Jamie Clark, the dude near the punch, he’s the precinct’s crazy oat fanatic. And there’s—”

There’s a scream from across the room. Not a terrifying one. An annoying one.

Mina's at one of the tables ringing the dance floor, patting Paul vigorously on the shoulder and pointing.

“— the rest of my squad,” groans September. “God _fuck.”_

"Oh, your friends?" says Ben, still not letting go of September’s hand, "Should we go say hi?"

September’s face is crimson when he grits out, "No, let’s pretend we never made eye contact—"

From across the hall, Paul and Mina are marching over hand in hand.

 _"—argh,_ I hate this."

September tugs Ben over to the desserts table, out of earshot of any nosy policemen. It doesn't take long for Paul and Mina to catch up.

The usually-muted Paul is flushed, whether from the free flow martinis or from his hand tightly clasped in Mina’s nobody can tell. Flushed _and_ vocal, the way he coos, "Wow, September Redmond and — who's the lucky boy?"

Ben grins. "That’s me!”

“Ben, shut up,” growls September in warning,

as Ben goes on brightly — “Ben Denni at your service. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

as Paul and Mina exchange meaningful looks between each other — _"Ben!”_ “Oh that Ben! So good to finally meet you. I’m Paul —” “Yo, Mina here —” “We're September's teammates!"

as September nudges Ben, “You shouldn’t be talking to them—”

and as Paul scolds, "Hey, be nice to him!”

Everyone is taken aback (sans Ben, who is enjoying himself immensely), most of all September, who can only blink owlishly as Paul continues, "You must be really something, Ben! Nobody’s been able to crack this fellow's heart since June Cobalt."

"June Cobalt!" Ben repeats the name with gusto. "Septie never told me about him!"

Paul nods, “Her, actually —”

and Mina raises an eyebrow to say, "Seriously? The ex he'll never get over for the rest of his life? The one he’s been highkey pining for ever since he was a recruit?”

All three of them turn to gaze at September, face twisted up in embarrassment, knuckles white around Ben’s hand.

Paul cuts in, “How long have you been together, anyway? You guys were smooching on the sidewalk—"

Ben replies cheerily, "Mm, a day? A month? A year? It's complicated."

as September hisses, "We're not dating.”

and when Mina says “Oh _really_ ! What was it again, _with love and longing and_ plenty _of… ”_

September bellows “NO” which makes Mina laugh herself into oblivion — September doesn’t need to see it to know how _elated_ Ben’s face becomes, like a goddamn child on Christmas, “That is _oversharing._  And out of context! —”

"So, how's September like, in love?” Mina continues, without a single trace of shame, “This _brick_ is only sentimental when he's bleeding over the backseat of a car.”

Ben pauses. "Bleeding over the backseat…? When did that happen?"

"Oh, the shooting. It got _weird,_ man," Mina says casually before noticing Ben's face. "He didn't tell you what got him in the hospital? What a damn hardass. Bullet right through the calf, gave him that old man limp he's trying _real_ hard not to have right now."

She narrows her eyes at September, who’s starting to sulk.

"You really didn't tell him?"

"I keep things to myself, so what—"

"A damn hardass," echoes Paul. Then gasps, scandalised, "Wait, wait wait, wait. A month of hospital stay, one month of home recovery _and_ another month of desk duty and you never once told Ben? What kind of lover are you, boss?"

September splutters. Fluidly, Ben puts an arm around his waist. "Now now, lay off the hardass. It's my fault too. I should have shown up sooner."

And pulls September subtly closer.

"Ooh hoo _hoo,"_  Mina exhales, very unsubtly. "Alright, looks like they've got something to talk about. We'd best leave ‘em to it."

 

When Mina and Paul have left, Ben smirks widely at September. "Thought you'd have told them I was your cousin or something."

September holds up their hands, fingers still entwined. "Out of the question."

It’s like Ben only feels the contact when September points it out — it could be the light or the alcohol, but he’s begun to pink.

September lets himself a faint smile at the sight. Monday Blue, pink. A memory to never forget.

And then Ben grins ever wider… “Let me guess. Love, longing and—”

 _"Lust,"_  grits out September, because saying it is at least marginally better than hearing it in Ben’s obscenely satisfied purr. “Misdirection, I swear.”

"I'd ask you what on earth were you thinking," mutters Ben as they walk back onto the dance floor, "but you probably want to ask me that too, I reckon."

It’s abruptly clear they’re talking about more than love notes now.

"Surprisingly, no,” replies September. “I've learned to cope with not knowing what you want or what your goals are. Quite an experience, isn't it?"

They slip right back into the rhythm of another slow song, September's hand behind Monday's back and their other hands gently clasped — a perfect unsuspicious couple, the perfect distance from each other to whisper illegal plans into each other’s ears and not be heard.

_One-two-three._

"You said not to trust the sunlight," September says a bit later, and it sounds like it's supposed to be an explanation, "But I needed to know who it worked for."

He pulls Monday closer still, leaning right up close and into what little air they share.

Murmurs into his ear, "I needed to know which side I could trust."

Ben catches a breath and quite possibly gets even redder than before. He schools his expression.

"You can trust me," Monday says. "I'm trusting you with enough as it is. … But not trusting the sunlight doesn't mean staring right into it!"

"That's what the sun said too, but look what happened." September pulls away. "I blame you. For being too cryptic." And then genuinely, "Don’t apologise. I made the call, I don't regret it."

Monday huffs. "Next time, make calls that aren't as likely to end up killing you! I need my cop alive."

 _"Your_ cop? I’d still arrest you right here and now, in full view of the force." A meaningful pause. "Tell me honestly, Mr Tonight, do you have an escape plan? Or do you just trust me that much?"

"I've got _five_ plans, honey. And maybe a few more that would involve breaking something,”

September inhales. Fixes Monday with a pointed look. _Don’t you fucking dare._

"And it's not that I trust you. I _know_ you. A little," Ben says, cheeky. "Here I am as your plus one, after all."

The only reply Ben gets to that is a roll of the eyes. "So, wanna know what I found out the fish warehouse?"

"I hope it doesn’t involves shellfish. I'm deathly allergic, you see. A single mention and I’ll swell up and die—"

“They have a mole. A powerful one,” says September, as Ben tenses the slightest amount under his hands — "With access to the fishery logs, the warehouse deed. Access to police issued guns, or the evidence store. They might know someone in the medical unit."

September glances around the room.

"The mole is someone in here."

Ben's gaze grows darker even as they continue their _one-two-three one-two._ "An inside job would certainly make more sense. How else could they evade police detection for so long? Guess you're the first intrepid, righteous cop willing to take on the institution."

"I hope I’m the first."

September's gaze drops.

_One-two-three twirl._

"What do you think's gonna happen, Mon — Ben?" A bitter smirk. "My chief doesn't believe a word I say, and there are many ways to play with a toy."

Those blue eyes narrow just a little.

And as the song hits a lull, Monday leans in to whisper in September's ear.

"Hang tight. Stay safe. Seize every opportunity and I will get opportunities to you."

Then, as he pulls back — "And for the love of everything, don't go to any more abandoned warehouses."

Dumbfounded and surprised, for a long while September can only stare. The music swells, and still they don’t move. Finally, a thankful nod.

"Yes sir, no more abandoned warehouses."

Gives Ben a slight grin.

"You should join the force sometime, after we've ratted out the double crosser."

"Me? On the force? I know you'd love to see me in blues, but…" His gaze drops for a moment. "It's a tad too late for me now."

Too late for that? September’s about to say something when Ben smiles again. "Can't help imagining me in a uniform, officer? Some people do like that…”

"Or, maybe an orange prison jumpsuit will bring out the blue in your eyes far better."

They’re smiling at each other suddenly. As it so happens, it’s for the first time.

Something shifts in September's gaze. His hand travels from Ben's back down to his waist.

_— his cheek, inside his veins —_

"Have we met before?..." September asks, hesitantly, carefully, "I feel like I should _know_ you."

And Ben — Monday — has stopped moving entirely.

"No, I don't believe so."

Then he smiles, bright like the sun—

"But yes, we _should_ both get to know one other more, I’d love that. Now excuse me—"

—before he slips from September’s embrace as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and loses himself in the throng, leaving September alone in the middle of the dance floor, his heart racing and a faint memory tugging at him like a drowsy lover in bed.

 

September barely makes it off the dance floor when the pasty washed-out chief inspector is upon him, one hand raised slightly in greeting.

"Redmond. There you are. Pity I missed your…" He trails off momentarily, no doubt remembering the note. "Boyfriend."

September wipes the unguarded expression off his face as he turns to Ven, inexplicably disappointed and dissatisfied.

"Ven, for fuck's sake, he's not my boyfriend."

"I hardly know him!" This is true.

"He's annoying and talks too much." Also true.

"He should just stop bugging me." This time, maybe possibly not so true.

"With love and longing and plenty of lust?” —  _fuck, how many more times does he have to hear this tonight_ — “That letter is burnt into my memory, Redmond. No thanks to you."

"The one time I report properly to you, chief, I get wrung out for it. Injustice."

Ven has it in him to look amused. "Maybe if you wanted Ben to stop bugging you, you shouldn't have invited him."

"He invited himself along." September huffs. "Enough of him. Where’s _your_ plus one?"

"My daughter," says Ven, to September’s immense astonishment, "is off with her nanny being the apple of everyone's eye. I never knew officers liked babies so much. I myself hated them before I got one."

He waves a middle-aged woman over as he talks (“I’ll hold her for a bit, Shannon, go get something to eat—”) and soon is cradling a little bundle in his arms.

The baby’s restlessly asleep, moving her arms to an unheard rhythm. Cute brown curls fall messily over her round face.

September can’t bite back a smile, and Ven reciprocates by twitching up a corner of his mouth in an attempt at a joke.

"For the record, I still hate them now."

It’s not a good joke.

September gives him a weird look. "This is your… _daughter?_ A baby??…“ He looks Ven up and down _(who on earth would sleep with someone like you—)_ and then up and down again. "Uh, _okay,_ right. I… I did not know you, er, got a baby." He shuffles awkwardly. "Congratulations?"

"Thank you, Redmond.” Ven sounds very pleased. “Besides, it’s not like I advertise. De Vis found out and he's been forwarding me kiddy dinosaur email blasts ever since. After that, I wasn't taking another chance."

"Really. Then do _not_ let Cara find out. You’ll get a box of sugar as a gift." He gives Ven a wry grin. "Though I think she’s still gonna. Because Cara and De Vis have the hots for each other and they tell each other _everything.”_

Ven closes his eyes; to him these things belong in the realm of the unspeakable and most certainly should not have been mentioned in front of his sleeping infant.

"Her name's Evelyn,” Ven goes on. “Her mother wanted that name."

"And you didn't?"

September bends slightly to look at Evie properly. "Hi sweetie," he murmurs as he threads his finger into Evelyn's hand, smiling when she clings on. “She has your smile.”

"Does she?” says Ven, who hardly ever smiles unless the sky is falling or trouble-making lieutenants are suspended to teach them a lesson, “I adopted her. The name was her mother's request."

Evie, oblivious, squeezes September’s finger. She seems content.

"Wow, okay,” September says dumbly, “well yeah, she uh, — you, uhh — good smile. She’s — adorable. Uh — why did you decide to… _get_ her? Didn’t think you’re the type to, uh, mix around with kids."

"It's simple, really. I can't have my own kids. My wife wasn't keen on adopting, but well, she's my ex-wife now," Ven shrugs. The answer comes like he’s been rehearsing it.

"O-Oh." September doesn't know what else to say, so he just continues to wriggle his finger in Evie’s grasp.

“Evie’s all tuckered out after Paul told her about the ocean sunfish and Mina accidentally swore at her seven times,” Ven goes on, saving them both a moment of awkward silence, “She’s not normally this sleepy, but it is a welcome change.”

“She’s adorable,” September says again.

“Soft spot, Redmond?” Ven quips, even though his expression is softer than September’s ever seen.

“Newsflash, chief, the precinct’s just one big bunch of look-tough losers — You are _so_ tiny,” he tells Evie, “Has dad been taking care of you? You call 911 if he hasn't, okay?, and I will bust his ass."

"Redmond,” Ven says, “Defame your superior officer any further and I’ll be busting _you—”_

“I will definitely dropkick your dad outta here faster than he can say _Redmond, this is Very Bad and I’m Mad. You're fired."_

Right on cue Evelyn laughs, a tinkling bubble of a sound. And her hardass father can’t help but crack the tiniest smile of his own.

“That’s a horrible impression of me, Redmond.”

September smiles too, then extracts his finger and stands back. "Take care of her, alright? And if you ever need anything, let us know. Precinct’s family, we’ll help.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Ven half-smiles again. Clearly he's in a good mood.

"Sorry I had to suspend you, Redmond," he continues, sobering up a little. "Hope you're doing better."

"I hope I didn't cause too much trouble,” says September stiffly. It’s also a rehearsed line, even if it is a bad one.

"On the contrary. General misbehaviour in the office went down by at least 50% while you weren't there. I hope this was a wake up call for you, Redmond. Making arrests is only one part of being a cop. You need to respect the badge."

"We’re supposed to be having fun, _Chief_ Pemberton. Lighten up a little." A nonplussed sigh. "But alright, I'll respect the badge."

“However—”

"Wait,” September frowns. _“Fifty percent_ of misbehaviour? I can't be the only one! I mean — Jamie! That guy from downstairs! He’s always late and takes too many toilet breaks and ruins the microwave and—"

"Of course not, Lieutenant,” Ven says, “Nobody represents general misbehaviour as a statistical value, that’s just not very representative of how things work." He pauses. Meaningfully. "But if I were to calculate it you’d make up 37% at least."

September sulks. Carefully, Ven shifts his little bundle of a child so he has a free hand to clap September’s shoulder with.

"However, it does make me glad to hear you're going to _try_ behaving like a proper officer every once in a while. If you stick to policy you’ll be promoted sooner than later, for sure."

Those are like September’s own magic words — it’s always been his dream to rise up the ranks. "Can't promise I'll be a role model but I'll try to be more run-of-the-mill, just for you."

"Appreciate the effort, Redmond. I know it's difficult for you."

It's dripping with sarcasm, but there's easy familiarity too. They've known each other for a long time.

"I'd best be going, I should talk to the Commissioner before he gets too wasted to remember my name. You should find your friend.” Ven gives him a firm nod, and September returns it. “Take care of yourself."

"Appreciate me while I'm nice, sir,” he says to Ven’s retreating figure, then hurriedly looks around for Monday, because what the fuck has Monday done while he was occupied—

But of course, Monday is nowhere to be found.

It is, after all, a Friday.

 

He heads outside. The courtyard is lit with fairy lights. Carefree laughter rises up from all around — the Officer’s Ball is, and always is, such a big hit with the cops, and why it is September will never know — but really, it’s not the laughter he’s searching for.

Not a single silhouette adorns the roofs of surrounding buildings, not a stray shape blocks out the starry sky.

And September finds himself, without explanation, disappointed.


	10. Chapter 10

It doesn’t take long for September to leave the officer’s ball behind and arrive at his favorite bar. Sure enough, he’s tipsy in no time. September tries, he really does, not to be the alcoholic his parents warned him about but shit’s hit the fan after June broke up with him, and hasn’t stopped flying since.

He feels awful but at least he's alone.

Or that’s what he hopes, because Ben's in the bar too, a few stools away.

He notices September and slides over. "You come here too? No way."

September turns to him, long-suffering sigh conspicuously absent. "You're underage. Go home."

Without pause he orders a drink for the young man beside him.

"Underage? How old do you think I am?" Ben sidles up to September and rests his head on one hand. "I must say I'm flattered."

"Don't let it get to your head. I'm trying to get rid of you.” September pauses. “Something wrong, Mo— Ben? You're unusually chatty today."

Ben takes the new drink from the bartender and downs the glass. "I don't know. Maybe I'm drunk. Are you drunk?"

September's lip twitches and he does the same. "A little."

He casts a lazy look at Monday — at Ben.

"You should probably leave."

Ben gives this some thought. "Do you want me to?"

September sighs, then reaches out for his next glass. "Maybe. Do you want me to drink this?"

"I don't know," says Ben again. "Do you want to remember tonight or not?"

September considers the question for a long while.

Finally he pushes the glass away. "Kinda."

Ben smiles broadly and pulls the glass towards himself. "You know what, no more work talk for tonight. Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

“What about? My fear of blood? My ex-girlfriend? That time I got chased by a hungry dog and ran two K's before it lost interest?"

"...you had a girlfriend? Do tell."

"Didn't Mina and Paul tell you about —" September sighs and reaches for his — now Ben's — cup. Settling in for a long talk.

"Her name's June. I loved her more than life itself. We were supposed to get married and have two kids… Had a real heart for helping those in need, a real saint. But she kissed like an incubus. Two years after college we'd gotten jobs — I graduated top of my class in the academy and she'd just gotten promoted to assistant editor. Happiest I'd ever been.”

September laughs. Stares at the glass in his hand, contemplating.

“And then we split. I still don’t understand why. Not a day passes that I don't miss her."

Ben stares at September in turn. He's lucky September isn't looking at him right now.

"That's terrible," he says softly. He hesitates. "Do you have a picture?"

September takes out his phone. "Here."

A candid photo — a young woman curled on the windowsill, the dawn sun barely grazing the skin beneath her white nightclothes. She's laughing as she tucks long brown hair behind her ear.

"It's not terrible,” says September, “it just, it is what it is. I don't blame her."

"Yeah, sure," says Ben, gazing at the picture, "but you feel terrible about it. That's fine too, no matter who's to blame."

And, as his eyes linger on the picture, "Sometimes it's just fate. And fate can be terrible."

He nudges the phone back towards September, who studies the photo for a few more seconds before putting it away. "I don't believe in fate."

"Did you ever ask her why the breakup?"

"I tried to ask, but she said I shouldn't press." Shaking his head, he downs the rest of the drink.

Ben's eyebrows go up. "That's a bitchy thing of her to say. Especially if it was the last thing she'd have to say to you."

"Yeah, well, now I want to move on to someone else but I don't know how."

"You've just gotta find someone, Septie. No shame in a rebound."

September stays silent a long while. Just when Ben draws breath to speak again, September turns to him.

Reaches over and trails a finger down Ben's hand.

"Why are you so invested in me?” he asks. “Am I just one of your pawns, Monday? A piece to be used and thrown away?"

"Pawns? You assume —" Ben forces his eyes to meet September's instead of staring and staring at his finger, "— that I can afford more than one.”

"Tell me." September's gaze is unfocused. "I can't figure out what's inside your head. Why do you do what you do. You infuriate me."

Ben blinks several times.

"Well, officer, I could ask you the same question."

Slowly he shifts his hand, sliding out from under September's to grasp it. Staring at September intently the whole time.

It feels like a question in itself.

And to answer, September squeezes that hand in his — Ben’s, his mind supplies, but no, this has always been Monday to him.

"You said it yourself. I can't turn down a lead. " And leans closer, taking the lead Monday gave him. "I’ll take every chance. Every opportunity. I don't know how else to tell you.” _Without the alcohol,_ is the unspoken word that hangs between them.

Ben is silent for a long while. It almost seems like ten hours. Then he places another hand on their clasped ones, smiling weakly.

"You," he says, "are extremely drunk."

September frowns, like he's offended, like this wasn't what he wanted to hear. Like Monday should know better. But Ben just smiles and squeezes his hand — their hands. "If you want a chance… what chance are you looking for, exactly?"

"Anything you'll give me." A pause, then, "I don't want to do this alone, Monday."

"The case? Your life? Recovering from your messy breakup?" Ben's smile softens. "It seems the lone wolf wants a friend."

September stares. Monday has hit one of his drunken nerves somewhere. Finally, "I'm not a lone wolf."

“Right, and I’m not the one who always disappears.”

"But you're here."

Ben shakes his head. "You came. And I need you."

"You keep saying that." September's grip tightens. "Why?"

"Because you're a cop and I need a cop to take down the mafia, genius." Ben laughs softly. "You are so drunk."

"Bzzt. Wrong answer. You're supposed to say _because you are the only one I trust._ I can tell that’s the truth. And fuck you, I’m not drunk, you are—" He stifles a belch as he looks down at their clasped hands. "Oh, holy _shit."_

Ben’s careful laugh bubbles into a real one. "Fine, okay, I'm totally drunk. And fine, I trust you. As long as you don't walk into any more traps. Then I can _trust_ you to keep yourself alive."

September raises a finger. "Let's agree to disagree on… what are traps."

"Traps," Ben says patiently, "are dangerous things that you can avoid if you're smart."

"Monday, I'm the cop. I know what traps are. If I hadn't gone into that warehouse we’d still be at square one."

The mood has changed a little. Ben untangles his hands from September's and reaches for his half-full glass. He takes a sip.

"Or they could have killed you right there. You were lucky." Ben pauses, his next words are as though he's talking to himself. "… No, you weren't."

"I," September declares like he’s reached enlightenment, "have a history of walking into things I shouldn't. Whatever happens will happen. I mean, you're on my side. How bad can things get."

“Of course,” says Ben, understandingly.

September puts his head back down on the table. "Monday......... I think I drank too much."

"Because you're sad," says Ben, patting September on the back like one usually pats drunk people. Or tired people. Or sad people. Usually all three.

"I'm not sad…  God, I miss June."

"I hope you don't get this sad too often. It can't be healthy for you or your wallet."

His hand slows.

He could go farther. He knows that.

But —

_Redmond trusts him._

"Give me your phone. I'm calling you a cab."

September makes several swipes at his pocket with effort and eventually drops it onto the counter. Several failed password attempts and seven minutes later, the phone is finally unlocked. And written in the notepad app on the home screen:

 

_Monday blue Ben dover (bend over) Han dover (hand over) Ben denni/denny (bend the knee wtf)_

_\- Be careful of Sunlihgt_

_\- Use it Do not trust it_

_\- Seize every opportunity and opportunities will come_

 

Monday Blue/Ben Dover/Han Dover/Ben Denni/Denny can't help but smile at that.

He opens the booking app — oh, his address is already inside. That makes things a lot easier.

"Does June know? That you miss her?"

"... She doesn't care. She's not like you."

"Aw, Septie. Do you miss me when I'm gone?"

September raises his head long enough to give Monday a dirty look, and Ben is immensely satisfied by that.

"Don't worry, Septie, I miss you too. You and all your dour expressions, in every variation of dour." He points at September's face. "That's another to add to the album."

September makes a weak swipe at him.

"Screw you."

His hand falls onto Monday's thigh and his gaze flickers down.

"Do you think it's okay? To want you? With me?"

Ben's thigh tenses, even as September’s dark eyes find his.

"Because you are extremely intoxicated and barely lucid at this point, it's acceptable.” He moves to gently take September's hand off his thigh. “But because you are extremely intoxicated and barely lucid, it is my moral duty to politely decline."

_(but oh if his hand doesn’t linger on September’s for a second or less.)_

"But I miss you every day, even without the—" September’s face twists, visibly holding back a lurch of his stomach. "Booze."

The phone in Monday's hand buzzes just in time. September takes one look at the screen and has his arm around Monday's shoulders in an instant, practically pulling Monday off the barstool. He leans heavily against Monday, breathing hard. "Fuck. Drank too fast. Monday... don't go."

"Nope. _Nope.”_ Monday knows his limits, and this is practically kicking the line. “I am getting you in that car and getting out of here."

They hobble to the door, beyond which the cab is waiting. "Jeez, Septie, you are _heavy."_

Before long Monday has deposited him in the back seat of the cab. When Ben straightens again, the driver turns with a glare. "Ey, get in here and help your friend. He's batshit drunk, don’t expect me to baby him."

Ben rolls his eyes and gets in after September. The car moves off.

Of course, September ends up sidling up against Monday before his eyes slide shut, utterly and exasperatingly relaxed.

Ben sighs under September's significant weight. There's nothing else for him to do. He settles between September and the car window for the rest of the ride, watching the streetlights flash by in bursts of champagne amber.

  


When September gets out of the cab he promptly empties the contents of his stomach into the roadside. _"Fuck."_

He struggles up the stairs to his apartment door, then sags heavily against the doorframe.

_Oh yes, someone came with him._

A name catches the tip of his tongue, and he calls, "Monday?"

"Mm?" says Ben, leaning against the open door. Apparently he’s already waited long enough for September’s arrival that he’s had time to pick the lock.

With effort, September studies the man’s face. Like Ben’s a stranger, someone he’s met in a dream. It’s like he doesn’t notice the unlocked door even though he owns the only key.

"Monday," he says at last. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Ben replies. "Mind, I'm only here till I make sure you get through your apartment door. Go on, get in."

Obediently, September slouches in and collapses on his couch, crushing notebooks and papers underneath him.

And Ben should leave after that. He really should.

But instead, he carefully extracts the crumpled magazine from under September's equally crumpled suit — and takes off the jacket too, because it's slipping off.

Then he notices something else on the couch, just by September's flushed cheek.

"Oh my, Officer Redmond. Bringing classified case files out of the office? Scandalous."

 

**_CASE FILE #47-12092017_ **

_Date: 12 09 2017_

_Location: Sunway Pier Warehouse 224-7B._

_Reporting Officer: CI. Ven PEMBERTON._

_Reporting Officer's remarks: While off duty, Lt. Redmond entered the premises of Karika Fishery Inc. for investigation. Redmond did not give any details about his case._

_Redmond was found by team members Paul de Vis and Mina Cara, shot through the right calve. The bullet signature matches those issued by Conrad District Force. RO suspects that Redmond had shot himself in a non-vital area to frame Karika Fishery Inc. His motives are, as of yet, still being investigated._

_Redmond has been suspended for insubordination from 13 September to 13 November. He rejoined the force on probation._

_Case closed by: CI Ven Pemberton._

 

"Mm not sca… s… sandalous," September groans into the couch.

"Fine, fine. Extremely un-sandalous.” Ben holds up the case file. “Looks like you've got quite the grudge against fish, Officer. Do you have a seafood allergy too? I'm glad we have something in common."

September groans and looks up blearily. "What seafood allergy?”

"Out of curiosity, officer, what does your boss think about all this?"

Ben appears to have forgotten that September is too drunk to talk coherently. Or maybe he wants his tongue loose.

“Fuck Ven,” September murmurs with feeling. “Can’t find anything good on the damn place without a warrant… God, _fuck_ Ven. As if I would shoot myself. Me. With my blood phobia."

"Blood phobia, huh? Tell me about that." Ben chuckles. "I'd love to know more..... Mr. Red."

Muffled, "It's dumb. Friend fucked up during close combat training. Knife to the gut. Idontlikethinkingaboutit. Makes me feel woozy and I stop breathing."

"Ohhhhhhh, wow. That sounds _bloody_ awful."

_“Ugghhhhh.”_

Ben allows himself one more chuckle. "Ok, I'll stop. Thank you for being vulnerable with me, Redmond. I'd best be going—”

_“Monday.”_

And Monday pauses, looks over at September trying his hardest to look at him.

"Thanks for being here."

It sounds so lucid, so much like the sober September that Monday has known up till now. He watches, waiting, expectant—

But all September does after is close his eyes and let his breathing even out for real.

Monday sighs like he's watching a baby sleep. And by baby, he really means grown man with his white dress shirt stained by booze in several places.

Laying September's jacket over his shoulders like a baby blanket, he can't help himself any longer — he kisses September softly on the forehead.

And as the sun rises to dawn and then to well past noon, the door remains locked and the windows latched. But Monday Blue is gone, and it’s like he wasn’t there at all.

  


The afternoon sun’s burned a patch into September’s back when he finally stirs, accompanied by the usual post-hangover Just Got Run Over By A Truck sensations.

At least he's home, and the door is shut and the windows closed. Things could've gone a lot worse. Even if everything smells like puke.

He sits up and the jacket falls to the floor. Not thinking much about it, he begins to clean up after himself… and it's only during lunch that he realises what’s been added to the notepad app on his phone.

_youre welcome ~ <3 _

And then, shortly after, realises that the bottle of wine he'd been saving for a special occasion is now only half full.

The door _is_ locked, and the windows _are_ latched, and nothing else seems to be taken. This — whatever _this_ means — is the work of his favorite thief, Monday Blue.

Right, he does remember meeting Monday at the bar, but not anything after that. Then the question is: did he invite Monday in, or had the thief simply let himself in?

 _You're welcome?_ Welcome for what?

He could delete the stupid comment. Trust Monday to leave notes in his phone for him. This isn’t _high school,_ Monday, god.

But he supposes keeping it around doesn’t hurt anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CI — Chief inspector.   
> Lt. — Lieutenant.


	11. Chapter 11

"… and in short, someone spilled a bag of coke all over the styrofoam boxes and old ladies all along Hoopes Avenue are reporting seeing their dead husbands coming back to talk to them."

September snorts from the driver's seat. "You kidding? This is why you dragged us out with no warning? Let the B team handle this."

"No!" Paul leans over the clutch. "All the boxes point back to Karika Fishery. I mean, I figured we can't say squat in the office, right?"

Karika Fishery. Only the source of September’s woes since he got shot all those months ago. Their records and CCTV footage were all _clean,_ except September knew Karika _wasn’t,_ and even though he’d already worked himself sleepless to figure out Karika’s secrets for weeks he’d come up short every time.

This coke was practically a chance in a lifetime.

Well, not literally, since old ladies were connecting with the afterlife and freaking out their loved ones, but tomayto tomahto.

September takes a deep breath. "I knew it. It's a front. Paul, you are a fucking godsend."

"I mean technically I stole the case from Jamie downstairs and he might tell Ven, so." Paul cracks a grin. "You ready to handle some fallout, boss?"

"When we show up with evidence Jamie can say whatever he wants. There won't _be_ a fallout."

"Guys. _Guys._ You do _not_ understand the gravity of the situation here." Mina's jammed up against the other car window, checking her phone relentlessly. _"My_ grandmother lives on Hoopes Avenue. I am _not_ going to listen to her talk about her sex god ghost husband for even a single hecking second. It’s bad enough when she’s not goddamn high."

September smirks a little. “Suck it up, Officer Cara, it’s for the greater good.”

"Can we get off the case? Please? Conflict of interest or something? Oh, who am I kidding." She slumps against the door. "Do we at least get to snort the codcaine?"

“Cod-caine,” echoes September, “Ha ha, very funny.”

as Paul stammers, "We don't know if the cod-coke’s certified, and what happens if you start talking about your dead goldfish? What am I gonna do then?"

"If I start talking about my dead goldfish, you _let me talk about my dead goldfish._ I need catharsis, Paul."

“There will be no snorting of drugs and no dead goldfish on this field trip,” September says without looking away from the road. "If you really can’t handle it, then Paul can interview her —"

"Hey no fair!"  

“But seriously. How bad can your grandma be?”

Mina eyeballs September as she takes out her phone and scrolls —  __"Your grandma just_ called your grandpa a frothy mocha cappuccino and gyrated so hard she busted her hip again."_

When Paul retches, Mina rolls her eyes. "That was my aunt, god bless her fucking soul."

"That’s way worse than the note. Eurgh."

"The note? Oh, _that_ note. Hey, you never told us where you went that night. I texted you kissy emojis the whole morning after. You still haven't replied."

When September only ignores her, Mina gets the hint to switch rails. "So what's the theory, boss? Accident or on purpose?"

"They're a careful bunch. So maybe it’s an accident. Probably some goon with butter fingers leaving a ton of prints. We go in quietly, grab some photographs, grab some samples, and I'll grab a warrant tomorrow when I can prove to Ven that this is all legit."

"Think we could stop by some Starbucks later?" Paul doesn't even object to entering without a warrant.

"… After, sure. Or maybe a nice cafe. I know a place."

"Honestly, boss, do you think we'll find anything?” says Mina unexpectedly. Perhaps old people lust has made her saner. “I mean, whoever's behind this, they were smart and powerful enough to empty that warehouse and fill it again in a single night. I doubt they'd leave tracks that easily."

"All crimelords will have a bunch of goons working the shit jobs. We just gotta keep our eyes open.” September parks the car. “First one to find any evidence will have drink and cake on me."

"Oh _hell_ yes." All traces of sane Mina are immediately gone. "My undercover persona's ready to go. My name is Molly Troutmonger, I'm looking for a job at the cod factory, but secretly… I'm loyal to _trout."_

"Troutmonger is such a lame name,” says September. “Let’s hear yours, Paul.”

“What? Is it undercover name time?” blurts out Paul, who was staring out the window at something (knowing Paul, probably nothing). "Uh, guess I'm Tom… Tom, er, Percifor. Short for Perciforme, the common grouper —”

"Tom," deadpans September. "Sure. Then I'm November."

Molly gasps at September’s unabashed apathy to the ancient art of persona-making. "That's a _shitty_ undercover name."

"It's the _perfect_ crime. Won't suspect the man with a month for a name to simply pick another month.”

“Couldn’t you pick a month that doesn’t sound like September at least? Like February, or August?” Molly shakes her head. “And _Troutmonger_ is such a lame name that nobody could possibly give it to themselves, right? Come on.”

"Oh, you're right," says Tom.

"Of course Molly’s right," says November, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Let’s just get on with it."

 

The warehouse had been closed. "Closed for renovations." Convenient.

They'd busted in with a master key and found a couple grams of coke, some heroin, and a string of garbled digits scrawled on a fallen post-it in the corner. It helped that after a scrub-down of the warehouse they found a heavy safe concealed behind a fake wall. It was fortunate Paul knew some basic cryptography — being the nerd that he was — and quickly deciphered the post-it to crack the combination lock on that very safe.

Inside was a yellow binder, contents undecipherable — probably encrypted, and they needed the key as well as lots of time to crack it — and, most importantly, a thumbdrive. Small, black, nondescript, and under that kind of security in a locked office, no doubt it had to be important.

Just before they left, September had also found a two-inch wide hole in the wall covered up with new plaster, hidden behind a painting, the perfect angle for a bird's eye view of the whole warehouse.

At least he can rest easy with a decent lead under his belt at last. An hour after breaking into Karika, he leads his fish-named friends into Cafe Time with honestly a little more than a spring in his step. "Guess who."

"Holy _shit,_ you're alive." Fortnight, in the middle of drying some cups, flips his towel over his shoulder and yells into the back room. "Hey Yestie. Your favourite cop is here. Try not to drool all over the counter, I just fucking wiped it."

"Oh my god, Redmond," mutters Mina. "You found a new coffee joint and never told us? How could you?"

"I wanted some peace before you lot ruined it."

Right on cue Yesterday skips out from the back room, beaming. "He-eyyyyy big boy!"

"Yeah," says September, "Don't call me that."

"It's been _ages._ Nightnight and I were so convinced you were dead. I even held a small funeral for you. Made you a funeral cake and everything, right Nightnight?"

September scoffs at the sheer absurdity of the conversation. "Sure, let me have my funeral cake and fucking eat it, too."

Yestie seems to suddenly notice Paul and Mina. "Oh, you have friends? Hey Nightnight, more customers! The networking is working, you were totally right!"

"I'm always right, Yestie, I'm a fucking business _mogul,—”_

“I’ll go network some more then. Gotta do my part, y’know.”

He slides over to the cake counter, where Paul is gazing at the array of pastries with wide glossy eyes, and says in a voice Fortnight knows all too well, "My my _my,_ you're one cute studmuffin. Got a name for me sweetheart?"

As Yesterday busies himself with the studmuffin, Fortnight turns his attention to Mina. "Welcome to the best damn cafe in the city."

"Howdy, stranger. I'm Molly Troutmo— _fuck._ Mina Cara." Mina holds out her hand, embarrassed. "Sorry, still stuck in undercover mode."

"Alright, Molly Troutmofuck," Fortnight slaps her hand noncommittally in lieu of a shake. "Once my barista's had his fun with Boytoy over there, he'll get you a drink."

"God, is that what he's doing —"

Mina's gaze quickly shifts to the cake counter. Fortnight sighs and turns back to September. "Your partners?"

September's wearing dead eyes and regret. "Wish I could say no, but even though they're dumb as hell they do good work. Busted many cases with their help. Wouldn't have it any other way."

They watch as Yesterday steadily gives up on making kissy noises at one oblivious Paul. Eventually sensing he's lost out to cake, he moves on to Mina instead. "To think a fine princess like you works on the force. Grace me with a name, officer? And then arrest me, please!"

"Mina Cara." She offers her hand without hesitation. "And don't worry about Paul. You need an _axe_ to get through that head."

"Not on the tiles please, I just got them fucking polished," deadpans Fortnight. He hasn't taken his eyes off September, and the set of his eyebrows conveys the deepest sympathy.

Meanwhile Yesterday shakes Mina's hand firmly, all smooth.

"Sweet name for a sweet girl. Name's Yesterday, the time you should've walked into this cafe…" he dips his head to kiss her knuckles.

"I'd like a cup of mocha," Paul blurts out abruptly. Yestie's latest move seems to have snapped him out of his cake-induced stupor, making him stare with something like mute horror.

But of course Yesterday doesn't notice until Fort _yanks_ at his ear and yells into it. _"One mocha, Mr Should've Walked Into This Cafe."_

Yesterday nearly upsets a stack of cups and dishes but recovers huffily. "Jeez Nightnight, use your _other_ indoor voice."

Mina’s wincing from the volume too, but there’s a smile on her face. "Alright, Mr Yesterday. Mind getting me a caramel latte?"

"And a long black for me, please," adds September.

The lieutenant pats Paul heavily on the shoulder. Then shoves him towards Mina. Paul, predictably, is not expecting this and stumbles into her just as planned, with bonus yelp and reddened face.

"Oh man, thanks for the present, Redmond." Mina throws her arm around Paul, happy to have him back. "Come on, babe. Let's go find a table."

Yesterday, ducking behind the coffee machine and humming like nothing happened, clearly doesn’t get the hint.

"Dumb and gross,” mutters Fortnight, apparently referring to both his _and_ Redmond’s colleagues by the way his gaze is moving. “Won the fucking partner lottery there, didn't you?"

"You should've seen them when they were actively vying for each other's attention,” replies September. “Our lounge smelled like boiled orange soda for a week."

"Boiled orange soda? What the fuck does that mean?"

 _"It means grave tactical error,"_ Mina yells from a nearby table. "I thought I could boil the allergies out."

Fortnight looks plagued. "I'm gonna take a wild guess. Didn't fucking work."

September sighs a very long sigh.

"It could be worse. One time Mina nearly set the place on fire—”

The conversation pauses as Yesterday barrels past them, having brewed Mina’s and Paul’s drinks in record time and hurrying over to entertain his two favorite guests.

September and Fortnight share an empathetic look. Disaster partners.

"How are things at Cafe Time, Fort? Haven't been here as often as I'd liked."

"S’alright,” Fort replies, retrieving a cup from the Yestie-abandoned coffee machine and sliding it over to the cop. “Yesterday's trying out donuts like you said. Work in progress."

“Toss them my way if you ever need a guinea pig.” September takes a sip of his coffee — exceptional as always. "By the way, Fort. Know anything about an underground drug ring?"

"Drug ring? Which one?" Fortnight snorts. "Just kidding, officer. Honestly don't know much except around this place. Besides those grandmas getting real fucked up on Hoopes Avenue."

September perks up. "Yeah, Hoopes Ave. You heard about that? What's the word?"

"Fucking idiots. Of all the ways for a drug ring to fuck up.” Fortnight curls his lip. “Sure it's a drug ring? Could be a fisherman getting high, who knows."

September snorts. "Sure, just a fisherman who has so coke on his hands he spills it all—”

"Nightniiiiiight,” interrupts Yesterday as he slouches heavily against Fortnight (who bears his weight with time-tested patience), “they're attaaaaached."

They look over to see Mina and Paul with hands clasped on the table, both of them brighter than a stoplight. Mina actually has her hand down the back of Paul’s pants.

“Took you long enough to read the fucking memo, dumbass.”

"Can't you let me sleep with a couple just once? Pleeeaaase? I feel like Little Yestie's gonna burst—"

 _“Never,”_ responds Fortnight through his teeth, "call it Little Yestie again. _Ever."_

"Unless Redmond—"

"Nope." September doesn’t even look up from his coffee.

"Nightniiiiiiiiiiight," groans Yesterday again, as he oozes over the counter and sighs dramatically.

Fortnight lets out a dramatic sigh of his own, patting the prone Yesterday like he's an abandoned dishtowel. It's hard to tell whether it's a pat or a slap.

"So you've been investigating? Found anything?"

"Haven’t got a warrant, but all the old ladies were talking about Karika fish, so I was wondering, you know, drug ring. Jumping to conclusions as usual."

"Fuck. Karika fish, huh. So the ring's operating out of their warehouse or something? And the coke got into the fish?" Fortnight snorts again as Yesterday perks up just imperceptibly. "That's fucking hilarious."

September lets a smile of his own. "I don't know, but sure, maybe. I don't have evidence yet."

He pauses. Then, "Hey, listen, I'm gonna trust you with something. Okay? You seem like a good kid."

A glance at Yesterday, who’s opted for gazing into the distance with lidded eyes. ”Even your friend Yesterday."

"Aw, thanks big boy."

"Anyway, I actually did find some coke inside the warehouse. After I get a warrant tomorrow, I'll be able to trace for prints. If you can tell me anything…"

Fortnight raises his eyebrows an iota.

"Oh shit. Too bad I'm no cokehead, can't snitch on the suppliers and all."

Fortnight exhales. He seems to be thinking hard.

"Come to think of it, there's this one lamppost I see a lot of stoners around." He looks down at Yesterday. "You remember that, Yestie?"

Yesterday looks up. Only recognisable to Fortnight, there's a flicker of terror across his expression. Then he gets up and busies himself at the sink. “What lamppost?”

“You know the one,” says Fortnight. “All the cokeheads go there.”

“I don’t know—”

“You do,” Fortnight presses on meaningfully, “They gather there every other Thursday. Right on the dot at 9:45, after all the shops have closed?”

Yesterday’s hands still. "Okay… yeah. Yeah I remember."

“Yeah?” Fortnight prompts. “Where is it?”

"Circle Street. 4th lamppost after the turn on Orwell Avenue. Two down from the one with a flickering bulb. You drop your money in the bin beside the lamppost and you’ll find your stuff in there come morning. Ice, grass, coke, you want it they’ll give it.” He chuckles vacantly. “Apparently if you drop in a stack of cash tied to an empty magazine you’ll get a firearm. Last I heard it happen was in ‘16, someone bought an Uzi, mint condition.”

“Fucking wow,” Fortnight breathes. “I did not know that. Fuck.”

September nods. He’s slightly awestruck. "Thank you."

"Thank Nightnight," says Yesterday, busy wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

The cop turns to Fort immediately. "Thank you."

“Seriously, officer—”

“Oh my god,” Yesterday interrupts.

They turn to look — and see Mina alternating between squishing Paul’s puffed up cheeks, and drawing a milk moustache on him. There’s cream all over the table and all over Mina’s uniform.

"Just get your your gross partners the home before they make any more of a fucking mess,” says Fortnight, pained.

“On it,” grumbles September, draining his coffee in one go and hurrying. _“Alright,_ kids, time to go home.”

 

When they are finally back to the car and on the road, September says softly, "Listen. I don't know what's the deal with these drugs, we are definitely on to something big. If anyone asks, just pretend to not know squat.”

“Why so secretive, boss?” Mina grins. “We already know Tempus has their grubby hands all over this, what’s worse than that?”

“Well,” September says hesitantly, “I’ve got a gut feeling Yesterday and Fortnight know a lot more than they let on. They _have_ to be involved.” At Paul’s uncomprehending silence, he goes on, “Yesterday and Fortnight might be Tempus—”

"WHAT," yells Paul.

"Yes," says September without flinching. "Can't tell you any more than that."

"Wait, what? How did you know?" Mina, jammed in the back with at least three more takeaway lattes, looks almost betrayed. "And if you did, then… why'd we go there?"

“For intel, of course. But don’t tell anyone about this. Not even Ven.” September pauses. “If we’re suddenly pushed into shit creek then we’ll know we can’t trust those coffee boys. So just… I just want you two to be careful.”

"Sure, boss!" Mina raises one of her coffee cups like she's giving a toast. "If we all gotta die someday, I'm totally down for death by mafia. And by that I mean, 'course we're not gonna die, 'cos we're totally gonna be super careful. And we trust you."

"I mean I trust you, boss, but you’re just gonna make friends with two guys from Tempus? A-Are you sure that’s a good idea?" Paul clears his throat when September doesn’t reply. "But yeah, like Mina said, we trust you. Always have always will."

"Thanks, kids."

In the rearview mirror, Mina catches a glimpse of September smiling slightly to himself.

"No problem, dad."

Happily, Mina knocks back her cup. And promptly spills some.

"Oh frick!”

"O-Oh no, that's a lot—"

“Dad, I need tissues back here—”

"FUCk's sake Mina I just had the seat cleaned!!"

 

When Redmond’s car finally turns out of sight, Fortnight plaps his hand on Yesterday's head again.

"Don't be mad, okay?"

"I'm not." Yesterday bows his head for the shorter boy with a sigh. "I'm scared."

Fortnight rolls his eyes. "He's a fucking cop. We gotta make him trust us, right? We can still backpedal. Pretend we don’t know anything more. Don’t wanna go if you’re not ready for it.”

Yesterday doesn’t reply.

Gently, Fortnight goes on, "Just wanna see what this guy can do is all."

He gives Fortnight a look. _I can't make that decision._

“Yestie, you gotta pick a side.”

"… _He_ trusts Redmond."

"Never mind Redmond. Do you trust _him?"_

Yesterday gives it some thought.

"I trust you, does that count?"

At Fortnight's deadpan look Yesterday sighs, then mumbles, "He was brave. I think brave is good."

"Alright," says Fortnight. "Let's be brave."


	12. Chapter 12

The Roselie Street Farmers' Market — pride and joy of the city, drawing connoisseurs, tourists, and food enthusiasts from all across the region. After all, only the finest of foodstuffs stock its stalls, reserved for the city's richest and most famous.

But no longer!

For Monday Blue, the modern Robin Hood, has purloined the festival's most prized cut: a _Jamón ibérico_ ham! Once a decadent stuffing for bulging, wealthy stomachs — now a pledged contribution to the local children's home's holiday potluck!

At least so says the masked figure in black as he races down the market street with a paper-wrapped hunk of meat tucked under his armpit.

Lord knows how he has the breath to say all that while being chased by a squad of police officers.

"Robin Hood don't mean shit, you thief!" yells Mina Cara, scooting her way around a wagon of cabbages. "He got _bled to death_ by a _nun!_ We're still gonna arrest your ass!"

 _"No one_ knows that reference!" Monday calls back over his shoulder. "And I'm way cooler than that!"

"If you're stealing a _ham_ you can't possibly be that cool!" Paul jumps out at Monday and swipes, only to crash into Mina as Monday slips through his fingers like smoke.

September sidesteps the confusion, hot on Monday's trail.

"Hams don't help distribute wealth very well," shouts September.

"Don't disrespect the ham! You'll hurt its feelings!" shouts Monday in return, flinging a handful of Kiku apples (This juicy, ruby-red apple originated in Italy and can be yours for only 3 bucks a piece!).

Monday vaults up the side of a stall and sprints across the awnings. The wooden overhangs groan in protest, then splinter and crack, and everyone below screams.

September only barely manages to haul someone out of the way when a plank of wood detaches and falls. For some godforsaken reason, the man’s still clutching the sack of heirloom tomatoes to his chest like it’ll save him. "Don't bruise my tomatoes—"

Back on the chase. September roars, "Monday Blue! Stop! Get down from there or I'll shoot!"

Monday Blue does not stop. Another handful of grapes pelts down on him from above.

"This is ridiculous," September growls into his radio. "Where are you two, get over here!"

"We're _coming!"_ Mina grunts, shoving her way through the market crowd. "Never knew how stubborn vegans are. Nothing gets between them and their goddamn tofu."

"Get away from my tofu!" protests a vegan.

Just as Monday grins and flips back into the crowd, dark jacket billowing out behind him, landing where no bullets can touch him —

And September nearly slams headfirst into what Monday was avoiding in the first place.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me—”

A lumbering cow being led through the centre of the road.

September grinds to a stop on the fringes of the milling and cooing crowd. (“I love those black markings”, “Oh yes, she makes delicious milk!”)  The entire road is jammed curb to curb with patrons and unwieldy baskets of produce.

"Oh my gOD A COW. I LOVE COWS," comes Paul’s voice from somewhere behind him.

"Moo," says the cow. It meets Paul's eyes enticingly.

“Now’s not the time, Paul!” September yells above the crowd at the cow, then into his radio yells, "Spread out and find him!—”

It’s near impossible to navigate this crowd while looking out for a flash of black and gold.

"—Shit, Mina, you were right about this tofu."

"I know right? There's tofu _everywhere."_ Mina groans, and September easily imagines her flicking a gob of tofu from her cheek. "I think I stepped on some — _There!"_

September turns blindly. “Where?!”

 _“There!”_ she yells into the intercom, unspecifically. "Right there!"

And in the corner of his eye, just the faintest rush of bl —

September’s foot gets snared on something, which tugs on something else, and topples something else in turn,

and then he finds himself out of breath, soaked from head to toe in almond milk.

He’s unable to do anything but stand there, half-drowned and very-taken-aback, milk dripping from his hair and sleeves as people (and the purebred prize cow) turn to the commotion —

And meanwhile, there's Monday, perched on a fruit cart laughing at the sodden cop, his black attire glistening so blue in the sunlight.

"Oh dearie me, officer.”

—He’s _right there,_ right _out of reach—_

 _“Nut_ doing so well, are we?"

—Paul and Mina are still stuck on the other side of the cow, Mina using Paul as an ineffectual battering ram deep in the mulling throng—

He’ll have to bluff. He drops his hand to the holster even if he _can’t shoot,_ because Ven will have his hide for shooting now when he’s only causing general havoc with a ham and bad puns, while September hadn’t shot back then when this same thief had cartwheeled off with 3.5 million in jewellery in the biggest heist of the season.

“Don’t make me shoot! You're under arrest for theft, destruction of public property and obstruction of justice."

"Obstruction of justice? Really, Septie? After all we've been through."

Monday vaults off the cart back onto the awnings and sprints off.

September has no choice but to give chase, trying his best to keep up while dodging unruly sacks and crates (fresh and wholesome homegrown produce, support your local farmers with your last dollar!).  If he can cut the thief off at the next junction, he might be able to flush him into an alleyway, and then further on into a dead end.

He grabs a bicycle from one of the bewildered shoppers — "Sorry, I'll return this!" — and then rushes after Monday. "This is my last warning. Stop or I'll shoot!"

No way Monday can outrun him now.

Unless! —

Monday leaps from the awning, straight into a flock of pigeons pecking at crumbs (aged sourdough made from a starter seven generations old) —

The thief hears the yelp and agitated coos that follow as the officer in pursuit barrels straight into the flock and then out of it.

September leaps off the bike into the junction, gun drawn.

The thief’s in the alleyway. Hands up. Obedient.

_Waiting._

"Couldn't help but notice… your body cam's stopped blinking."

Monday smiles as September chances the briefest look down.

"Must've been the almond milk, officer."

There’s at least two smears of what is definitely not congealed almond milk streaked across his blue uniform.

The officer aims his gun, thumb on the safety, ready to fire. Edges into the alleyway. He’s scanning the alleyway best as he can out the corner of his eyes, trying to find any escape routes (none, save a boarded-up storefront) or stray ladders or crates that the thief can vault off of (none, only a toppled trash bin in the corner).

His instinct was right. This _is_ a dead end for Monday. He’ll take the thief back to the station and Mina can wring him of everything he knows about Tempus. He’ll get the leads he’s been chasing. He’ll see an end to this case.

But it still seems a little too easy.

"Where's the ham you stole?"

"Oh? I'm surprised you didn't notice. I’ve passed it off to an urchin from the home, god bless his scrawny little soul."

There’d been so much going on, and September certainly hadn’t noticed anything besides the man whose hand the ham was in.

Monday spreads his hands like an entertainer. “It’s been a while, Redmond.”

"Talking's not going to get you out of the inevitable, Monday."

“How've you been? How's crime doing? Hear it's going great."

September’s grip and aim down the gun is true as he says, "I think crime's about to have its heyday."

Monday grins widely. "Or how about a change of perspective — I _am_ the heyday. Frolicking about with hams and urchins? The life of the party."

He suddenly turns serious.

"Have you found anything from the fishery?"

September pauses. This, now this was what he’d been hoping to get out of this chase.

"I found some intel. About Tempus. About someone named…" his brows furrow. "Decade?"

 _"Decade._ What a name. How does it feel, officer?" Monday smiles again, slow. "It's gotta be the biggest case of your life."

September doesn’t deny it. "Tempus has billions in laundered money, several black market circuits, enough to put them away for lifetimes…" he adds lightly, “You know, if you wanted to talk, you could've come in a disguise."

"Variety, Redmond, makes life worth living."

September's intercom crackles absently. _"Boss, we're gonna clear the market, tell us where you are—”_

He clicks the radio off.

"Variety is troublesome. Especially if your _piece_ is fumbling around in the dark."

He pauses.

"That guy knows you, doesn’t he? You're running from him. You need me, and I need you." He lowers his gun. "These games are a waste of time, Monday. Just show me your hand and I can go arrest that _Decade_ guy already."

Monday almost looks pained.

But he smiles nonetheless.

"You've done splendidly," he says. "But the games don't work if you cheat. What I need you to do is your job."

By the time Monday finishes speaking, his smile is gone.

"If I show you my hand, you'll never see me again."

This, this is new. It’s so _wrong_ to see Monday Blue without his smile. And September just knows, he knows the game must go on.

"Fourth lamppost along Circle Street. Tell me what you know."

"Hmm. Handsome fixture. Gives a lovely light. Certain to have served the city well for years and years."

Maybe another threat will keep him talking. September releases the safety of his gun and the _click_ echoes in the dingy alleyway. The thief simply stares down the barrel and doesn't flinch.

"You've got good eyes," Monday says, like he’s coming to some realisation.

"So the lamppost on Circle’s the real deal. Good." He closes the distance between them, along with the familiar movement of his hand going to the cuffs at his belt.

But as soon as the officer's weight shifts to the left, leaving the slightest of openings that wasn't there before —

Monday is there, just past his ear.

His hand at Redmond's cuffs.

"Fourth lamppost on Circle. Be sure to thank your friends behind the counter. And for heaven’s sake,” he pauses just the briefest of moments, “Be careful.”

And he's off!

Like a whirlwind, sweeping past the two officers still dazed and reeling from their encounter with the cow. The chase is on again!

But along the wide roads flanked by roads of glass-windowed shops, there's somehow no blue to be found.

The three officers are exhausted, outwitted, and outclassed.

Seemed to be a common trope for Mondays, even if today’s a Thursday.

"So," says Paul in a small voice. "Now what?"

September sighs and packs away his gun. "Now we lick our wounds and wait for next Thursday, and hope it's worth it."

“Will get to licking pronto, boss.” Mina, switching off her body cam, only just seems to notice Redmond's ruined uniform. "God, you look like shit."

"Nut, shit, nut, some juice, nut, shit, and more nut,” grins September, pointing out his various spoils of war. “If Ven nags me for ruining another uniform, I'm going to quit."

Mina gestures to herself. _"Wayyyyy_ more shit than you. We win."

"My uniform got chewed on," says Paul, lifting his shirt to present them with a hole just wide enough for a cow's jawline.

September stares. Then the plight of it all hits him like a truck and he just puts a hand over his face and he can do nothing but laugh and laugh.

"Oh, shit, you've gone fucking mad, sir," Mina says, even as she starts laughing herself, Paul giggling soon after, "Come on. Let's go."

 

They return to the station like that, raising eyebrows and pulling laughs from the clerks.

He heads back to his office, removing his vest with a sigh. Plops it on the ground.  

There’s still work to be done, though. First cleanup, then debrief. It might've been a simple chase, but as things went with Monday, September needed to make sure he hadn’t missed a thing.

And after that, he’ll tell Ven about what he saw at Karika Fishery. The chief in question, to his credit, isn't creeping around Redmond's office uninvited, but he does walk in a few minutes later.

"Couldn't help but hear from the clerks. Had fun at the market?"

September turns. Ven gets a good look at his uniform in all its sopping, curdled glory.

"Depends. If being humiliated by a thief is fun to you, then sure."

“It’s a riot,” deadpans Ven.

"Listen, I need to talk to you. It's about the cocaine bust down at Hoopes Street. I got leads."

September digs in his desk drawer for the evidence.

"Everything can be traced back to Karika Fishery. We found drugs there. The place was closed for renovations, but I called the contractor responsible — they have no records of Karika Fishery hiring them. And the warehouse hasn’t been operational for the past couple weeks, according to several eyewitnesses."

He places the packets of drugs on his desk.

"And," he adds, almost smug. "I found a hole in the wall. Perfect size for a rifle muzzle."

Ven surveys the mound of drugs contemplatively.

"A hole in the wall could mean many things, Redmond, but it doesn't explain the police rifling. However, this…" he continues, gesturing to the contraband spread on the table, "I can't ignore. I assume you'll be filing the paperwork for this properly. But what do you foresee the next step being?"

"We launch a full scale investigation on the fishery—”

"Who's to say that Karika Fishery won't reappear once we raid the warehouse?"

“I _want_ them there. Call the forensics team, the drug dogs, everything,” September says firmly. "Is that not protocol for a drug bust, sir?"

"Of course it is,” says Ven. “But they clearly know how to cover their tracks. Just making sure you know that."

September eyes him meaningfully. “I know. Plus I wanna find out why a drug ring wants me shot. It must be a warning. But it also means they're hiding something… like possible links to _Tempus."_ A pause. "Don't you think?"

Ven looks at Redmond just as meaningfully. "Perhaps. It _is_ one of the reasons I doubted you. I'd expect Tempus — as you've alleged — to have disposed of your body long ago. Why do you think they haven’t?”

September takes a breath, troubled. "I dunno," he lies. "If they killed a cop it'd be much more trouble for them. Whole precinct would be up in arms."

_No, it’s not about the easier way out. He’s Monday’s piece — and Tempus wants Monday to know they’re watching him, too._

But then adds, "Eh. Maybe I'll die tomorrow, bled out in some dingy alleyway by fifteen stabs to the back.”

"Maybe,” agrees Ven. He appears to be joking, even despite the look he’s giving Redmond. "If it's a drug ring, who are the dealers? Done any street work?"

"Think there's something going on at Circle Street next Thursday. I’m not sure if Mina and Paul should come.”

The chief inspector sighs.

"If I recall Cara and De Vis' testimony, you ordered them to stay outside the warehouse that fateful day with the phantom shooter. Have you maybe considered that _backup_ might not always be a bad thing?"

September's slight smirk fades.

"... You’re right. I would've died in the warehouse if they hadn't been around."

September can’t help a playful smirk anyway.

"But we’ll see. I don't expect Circle Street to be anything too hard to manage. Not like Roselie market. You'd have a heart attack if you'd been there, sir, Paul got seduced by a cow and Mina was thwarted by tofu."

"Ah yes, chasing the Pewter Mall thief. The 'Modern Robin Hood'." Ven holds up his mobile phone. The screen is open to a shaky video on a news site, paused on a frame of the cow swiping her leathery tongue through Paul’s toffee-colored hair. "Making a mockery of our law enforcement. The public loves it. I've half a mind to take you off the Pewter case—"

 _"What?_ Why? I'm the cop who's worked on this case for the longest time. I know his MO,” says September roughly. He can’t get benched, not like this. Not when things are only just getting real. “Who’s gonna chase him, then? — Jamie’s team? Jamie can't even catch a flu."

"Jamie's on his fourth day of medical leave, as it happens.” Ven kneads his temples. “I won't deny your competency, Redmond. But the guy's got skill, and maybe chases across town aren't your squad's strong suit.”

He slots his phone back in the inner pocket of his trench coat.

“Redmond,” he says, the edge in his voice having softened somewhat, “You know I don't like seeing you getting dragged through the mud out there. It's embarrassing."

“I’ll deal. Cops get played a fool every once in a while. Especially since the thief stole an entire ham. Just… _ham."_

 _"Jamon iberico._ Ninety bucks a pound. Nothing to sneeze at. Meanwhile, Circle Street." Ven pauses and sighs. "I could apologise for doubting you. But I won't. Someone's hiding something, no doubt. But exactly who, remains to be seen."

"Hopefully the sting will lead us to some answers." He clears his throat. "Is now a good time to mention that my vest cam shorted? Considering you do have footage of me getting drenched by almond milk."

Ven snorts. "Yeah, yeah, just log the footage and send the cam down to tech. And take a goddamn shower. Anything else you need to tell me?"

September glances at the mound of drugs on the table, then at the CCTV mounted on the ceiling near the door.

"If the shooter turns out to be real,” he begins, subdued, “and Karika really was an inside job… What happens then?"

"Then we find the rat," Ven says, not unkindly, "and flush it out. There are protocols. The investigative process will have its way."

"The mole could've been hiding for years. Safe to assume they know about those protocols, and how to evade them—"

"Evidence first." Ven softens. "But don't worry. I won't tolerate rats on the force."

September nods. He’s genuinely thankful.

Ven’s an asshole but at he’s still a good guy — Conrad District Force's asshole.

"Thanks, Ven. I'll let you know if I find anything else."

"Well, Redmond. Looks like you've got the dream case you were hoping for." Ven makes for the door, then pauses and says over his shoulder, "Good luck."

“Won't let you down, Chief."

 

Mina enters a few minutes later, still sloppy. She’s inspecting a gob of tofu between her fingers, probably having extracted it from her uniform. "Rich people tofu is _good,_ man. If I was a rich people I'd eat tofu all the time."

She contemplates, then gives the tofu a lick.

“Saw Ven leaving,” she adds. “He on your case again?"

"Ven... is being weirdly nice,” mutters September, packing away the catalogued evidence into his drawer and locking it. “Ever since he brought his kid to the party. He's creeping me out. He let us continue investigating Karika Fishery. I don't get it.”

“Me neither, but you don’t see me complaining.”

"Yeah, but he didn't even yell at me for breaking my vest cam."

Mina gapes, tofu forgotten. “Seriously? Wow. Ven loves his gadgets."

September picks up the cam and fiddles with it. Dead. "Maybe he's in one of his good moods."

"What, and you thought he'd take the case from us? Don't know if you forgot, boss, but we are _literally_ the best. Also, Jamie’s on sick leave.”

September frowns. "The guy thought I shot myself to make a case out of nothing. He’s not an idiot, he knows we snuck in to Karika without a proper warrant. I've gotten kicked for doing smaller things, Mina. What do you think about all of this?"

She thinks hard. "He… got knocked in the head real bad?"

“Then I’ll be sure to clock him in the head again sometime.” Mina snorts tofu all over his office floor at that and September tries not to look at it. "Hey. The Pewter Mall thief, did you see him pass the ham to anyone?"

"Maybe?” Mina says, trying to regain some of her composure, “Uh, dunno for sure. There were a lot of people. And a cow."

"Said he dropped it off with an orphan somewhere. I completely missed it."

"Who's missing who?" Paul comes in just then, wearing a thin cotton shirt and slacks, a towel across his hair. He's dripping.

He gives Mina an absolutely starstruck smile.

Then he turns to September. _"Wow,_ boss. You look awful,” he balks, like Mina isn’t covered in goop herself, and points at September’s shoulder. “Is… is that noodles?"

It is. September picks up the strand with two fingers and holds it out. "Want this, Mina?"

"Eww, god, I'm not eating off your _body,_ Redmond. I'm not an animal!"

Mina's face is red as she swats the noodle away. It is unclear whether the redness comes from agitation or proximity to a wet-haired De Vis.

The noodle lands somewhere behind the desk and September groans as he heads behind to look for it.

"And _Paul._ Dry yourself off before putting clothes on, _jeez."_ Mina whips the towel from around Paul's neck and smacks it across his chest, covering his very visible nipples. Paul just blinks. Evidently he doesn't see a problem with his very visible nipples.

"I mean, it's not like you haven't seen them before—"

"PAUL NO," September half-screams from behind the desk. "When will you both learn what is appropriate for the office."

"I'm just stating the truth!"

"Paul you — J-Just tell Redmond if you saw the thief pass off the frickin’ ham or not!"

Paul tucks his towel into his shirt like a bib. "Didn’t see it. I'd have liked to try the ham though,  _Jay-men Ei-ber-ei-koh_ _,_ it looks amazing." He seems unaware he'd mispronounced the name. "I did see the thief a little closer though, he has nice blue eyes."

"Oh, yeah, blue eyes, sure. _Everyone_ loves blue eyes. My ex left me for some bitch with blue eyes," Mina grumbles, and Paul looks at her sharply.

 _"I_ like purple eyes," he says.

"Of course you do," says September.

 _“Paul,_ I _told_ you, purple eyes _aren't real._ They're just weird brown or some shit." Still, Mina seems happy he said it.

"I like your weird brown eyes, too," says Paul immediately, curling an arm around her waist.

“You’re _so sweet,_ babe,” gushes Mina, before something hits her. “Oh! Hey, didn't Cobalt—?"

"Quit it,” says September immediately, “plenty of people have blue eyes. It’s coinciden—"

"Oh _yeeeaahhhhhh,"_ Paul coos. "Cobalt _totally_ had blue eyes.”

September flings the noodle at him. It lands on his bib.

"And now September's in love with Ben Denni," Paul continues as he coils himself more tightly around Mina, noodles be damned, “Because he has a thing for blue—”

"STOP, take whatever this is," September gestures fiercely at the couple, "Out my office."

“Aw don’t be so sore, boss. You don’t have June anymore but now you got Beeennnnn." Mina giggles like a schoolgirl, then starts pushing Paul out of the room. "Come on."

"They look cute together," Paul tells Mina on the way out, as if Mina hasn't already been saying that to him for ages.

September just sighs as they shut the door behind them. Slumps into his chair — and remembers that he’s still covered in almond milk. Great, now he’ll have to clean the chair later.

That doesn't stop his thoughts from wandering over to the offending blue-eyed thief anyway.

 _Thank your friends behind the counter,_ he'd said. Did Monday know Yesterday and Fortnight after all? Were they working together? … no, Monday did seem surprised September knew about the lamppost on Circle at all.

They must be on the same side. Even if Monday doesn’t know it.

What was the thief doing being pally with guys from the same organisation he was trying to bring down? Didn’t Monday want September to put an end to Tempus — Fortnight, Yesterday and all?

One thing remains clear, though.

Everything, everything depends on the sting on Circle Street.


	13. Chapter 13

It is a Friday.

June Cobalt is, as usual, running herself ragged trying to keep to her deadlines this eventful week. The feature piece on Karika Fishery is due in a day, and she doesn’t need another _something_ happening at the farmer’s market on Roselie. And of _course_ the public’s favorite thief has to be involved, so that’s one more op-ed she’ll need to see published by mid- next week—

"Ms Cobalt?" It's her secretary. Despite June having cleared her schedule for the day and given express instructions not to be disturbed for the next few hours.

She looks up with a twinge of irritation. "Is something wrong?" Of course something has to be wrong. Her secretary is very good with keeping her schedule intact.

"There's someone in the lobby by the name of Robin Banks?" says her secretary, face full of confusion. "Says he's your… illegitimate son and insists of seeing you immediately."

 _—"Long-lost,_ darling," floats a voice from the lobby. "Much less dreadful, don't you think?"—

"Not that I believe him for a moment, but… he's stubborn."

"Children can be a hassle. We never worked out the child support,” June replies as she strides past her astounded secretary and heads for the lobby. "Make sure nobody interrupts us in the conference room."

Waiting for her is Robin Banks. A rather grimy boy, with a cheap pleather jacket hanging off his shoulders and moussed black hair that flops in the front.

June Cobalt folds her arms and addresses her very illegitimate son, "Really? You couldn't even give me a call."

She heads to the conference room without waiting to see if he'll follow. But she knows he will. There's a reason he's here, after all.

"Got a new phone, guess I didn't save your number. Sorry, mom." A wicked smirk grows on his face. He sounds far too chipper to be any amount of sorry.  "How's everything? Haven't seen you in _years."_

Robin steps into the conference room after June and shuts the door with a lazy backwards kick of his foot. He’s every bit the wayward child unloved by biological and state-appointed guardians alike.

Apart from the fact that he looks barely five years younger than Cobalt herself.

And his bright blue eyes leave nothing hidden.

"How’s everything, you ask?,” June replies. “Apparently I have instigated coitus with a man not only careless enough to leave me with child, but all the related parenting responsibilities as well. Clearly I am in need of self-discovery."

Her deep blue eyes are shadowed behind her fringe and glasses.

"You look worn, Robin. Life on the run mustn't be treating you very well."

"Au contraire, mademoiselle. This getup is _specifically_ engineered to convey worn-ness. I mean, just _look_ at this jacket. Nice old ladies are begging to give me cookies on eye contact.”

“I don’t presume you’ve heard from your father at all,” says June.

“Not to worry, my father's been more than nurturing." Robin grins darkly. "Too bad I ran away."

"Yes. Your _father,_ who doted on you. I hear he had incredibly high hopes for you. His favorite child.” June perches on the edge of the table. “Do you know, he's turning the city upside down to bring you home? Wants to catch up with you over hot cocoa, a warm fire. A nice meal."

"Only the best from my old man," concurs Robin. "I miss his roasts, he only ever used the finest meats. Say, have you ever tried _Iberico_ ham—?"

"Once. Too salty. Really, Robin. Harassing the upper-middle class at their favorite market event, all for a shank of pork.”

Robin raises his eyebrows as high as they can be seen behind his hair. "Me? I would _never!_ Don't tell me you're putting those deeds to my name in the _press._ I could sue.”

“It seems your time away from home has taught you absolutely nothing. This is…" June thinks a moment before she says, with pity, "shameful."

 _“Shameful?_ I beg to differ! The modern Robin Hood, they're calling him. Sounds like a case of biased reporting to me, mom."

"I'm chief editor of the Herald, boy. The words I select are exactly as I intend." She laughs at her own joke, covering her mouth with a slender hand. "Well. To what do I owe the honor of meeting Robin Hood in the flesh? Far warning, bleed on my carpet and you will have to leave the premises."

"I'm glad neither of us were planning to have my bowels spilled today!"

He rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together with their fingerless gloves. His commitment to this look is quite astonishing.

"I've had the pleasure of meeting your ex," says Robin.

Amused, June's smile grows. It’s one of those smiles that draw you in, kind and warm. "Oh, have you? Then you must've heard lots of awful things about me. All of which are true, by the way.”

“Really! I’d never have thought.”

June ignores him. “September Redmond — so naive, earnest to a fault. It's a shame things didn't work out."

Robin smirks without mirth. "Didn't think a lady like you would ever date someone so straight and narrow."

"I made the dean's list three years running _and_ class valedictorian, mind. But you're right. It was a mistake, which is why we broke up. Temby always—”

"Oh my god, _Temby?”_ Robin's every bit the disgusted teenager, appalled by his not-quite-old-enough-to-be-his-mother mother.

"Don't use that tone of voice with me, young man. I'll tell your father."

“That is _so_ gross,” Robin continues, unrepentant.

“— September always had a penchant for diving head first into things that didn't concern him. It’s what makes him a good cop."

"So what, you broke up with him before you got caught in the crossfire?"

June pauses. "You might find it hard to believe, but I broke his heart to protect him. He's just an honest guy who wants to do his job right. He doesn't need any of this.” A slow smile. "I cared for him in my own way. Do you?"

"Why would I?"

"You remind me of your pops. The same ‘use and discard’ ideas.” June laughs, and Robin stays carefully silent. “Indulge me, Robin. What do you think of my ex?"

He considers it. "A _very_ messy drunk."

June looks unimpressed. "He doesn't drink."

Robin raises both eyebrows much higher. "No wonder you broke up."

Then he softens, reluctantly.

"He still misses you, you know. He wouldn't stop talking about you."

June sighs in frustration, sharp enough that Robin recognises it's genuine. "Unsurprisingly. He comes to me every time before he starts a big case. Something about last words and not having regrets, I'm guessing." She gestures at a row of bottles on the side table, one of September’s many gifts. Then she says, with meaning, "He needs. To move. On."

Robin’s eyes drift appreciatively over the labels. They’re good stuff. Things a cop shouldn’t be spending his slightly-better-than-paltry salary on.

"And you haven't opened a single one of these, because…?"

He pumps his eyebrows once, rather inappropriately — _wanna open one now?_

June smirks, as though she should've seen it coming. She gets up and pours out two glasses.

"I still can't believe you're working with Temby. He's just a lieutenant."

"Working with him? You misunderstand. I've only met him _incredibly_ intoxicated. And you know he wouldn't drink on the job." Robin accepts his drink and downs it deftly in one go. "Though separately, his squad did chase me down a couple times."

He leans over the table, conspiratorial. _"He's not very good at it."_

“You're not the type to let incompetent cops chase you more than once, Robin.”

"He's _assigned_ to my case, mom."

“You disappear before anyone can even get a word in. The _chase_ has never been your style; you wouldn’t let him unless he had something to offer. Running and evading all day long — It's a wonder he hasn't already shot you.” Her gaze is icy. “Besides, September’s far better with a gun, if I remember his gunmanship scores right."

Robin’s smile is just as cold. "Or maybe I haven't done anything to warrant being shot at."

 _"I'd_ shoot you," she says impassively. "Twice. Once in each kneecap." Makes a face. "Mm. But the carpet is expensive."

Robin's smile only grows wider. "I knew you wouldn't. You've always been more concerned about your carpet than doing what Dad wants.”

June's gaze softens. "Oh, Robin. I _am_ doing exactly what your father wants."

Robin feigns surprise. "So… _not_ shooting me in the kneecaps and dragging me right back to him is what he wants?"

"Yes. That and not putting September down. You know your old man. Waste not, want not. Either way, I'm not all that good with a gun."

"You wouldn't hit my kneecaps from this distance? Shameful.”

Robin pours himself another drink, staring at June over the rim of his glass.

“I'm honestly curious why you wouldn't get rid of your dear suitor Temby. I thought you wanted him to… Move. On."

“September’s nice to have around sometimes. I get chocolate, some drinks, pretty trinkets…”

“So, like,” Robin tilts his head, “Pretty stuff? Because I know where to get some at seven for a buck, if you’re interested?”

“I’ve been giving him the cold shoulder for years, Robin,” June continues as if Robin hadn’t said a thing, “It’s not my fault if he still hangs around like a puppy wanting out of the rain—”

"… so he's your _mole,”_ says Robin. June pauses abruptly, unable to hide her surprise. “Should’ve known. Moles everywhere nowadays, really, it's a wonder no one's got skin cancer.”

"It's not like I _recruited_ him,” says June. She sounds defensive. “He just… _volunteers._ I think he got too attached in high school and never found another way to let out his frustration."

She takes a sip of her drink to busy herself.

"Why, pray tell, are you so concerned about this one cop? Are you just using him to annoy me?"

Robin blinks twice. "Why, yes. And you're welcome."

June just gazes at him, a tired mother to her petulant child. "Evading again, Robin? Don't tell me you're going soft for someone so… straight and narrow."

Robin's words, right back at him. And it’s his turn to pause.

"Of course you left him," he says eventually.

Emotionlessly.

He looks at June.

"How could you be with someone like him," he says, "and live with yourself?"

June's gaze wavers. A deep breath later, "If you're playing the empathy card in attempt to win me over, it won't work."

She realises it after a beat. _Empathy._

"September always tended to bring out the best in people. It sickened me. I know you feel the same."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Dating a cop, while _spitting_ on the law behind his back. Keeping work and personal life separate, hmm? It must have helped keep things in the abstract."

Her gaze hardens. "I left him after entering Decade's employ."

"And still you let him come to you.”

"I warn him every time I see him."

“Yet now he approaches the mouth of the lion… I suppose you'll let him walk right in."

June moves to sit at the head of the table, putting the distance between them. Her eyes are cold again, some composure coming back to her.

"What about you, Robin? You're practically holding his hand. Pushing him towards the beast. You'll see him to his doom and leave with no explanation. You’ve already done that once, right? Even though you were offered glory on a silver platter."

"Huh," Robin muses. "Glory.” He raises his glass, a faux toast. “Do you want glory, June?"

"I _am_ glory,” June says, as Robin sips from the glass. “Your dad is a generous man, Robin, if only you know how to accept what has been offered to you."

Robin sets the glass down, aghast.

_"Oh my god, you're fucking my dad."_

_“No,_ I’m _not.”_

To Robin’s sheer delight, she still has it in her to look just the slightest bit shamefaced.

"Do you _want_ me to? Would you feel better if mommy and _daddy,"_ the word is curled in a sneer, "got together again? Do you miss the hot cocoa? Us reading bedtime stories to you? Oh, Robbie-boo, you poor thing. Sorry you made me an absent parent."

"Fiiine. What kind of mother would you rather be, then? Doting? Histrionic? Spare-the-rod, spoil-the-child? Or _‘you've been a bad, bad boy’—”_

"Maybe I’d be the overcontrolling one with too-high standards. It might’ve saved you from becoming such a tragedy." She clicks her tongue. "Look at you. You used to be such an angel. And now you're absolutely—"

“Repulsive?” smiles Robin serenely. "Look at that, we match."

“Enough,” June snaps, "Just how long are you going to keep roleplaying a misplaced punk?"

“And how long are you going to sit on your porcelain throne and pretend to be rich?”

Abruptly, he’s different. It makes June silent.

"If things are still as I remember them,” he says, contemplating the golden whisky in his glass, “You shouldn't have any glory to speak of."

"What could you possibly know about that. You left." June's voice is tight. “I run an _empire_ now. And you? You’re just a lowlife ham-stealing latchkey—"

"But we both know," says Robin, his blue, blue eyes flicking up towards her, "which empire really matters."

Robin puts down his drink. He doesn't get up.

"I'm here for one reason, Cobalt."

He simply gazes at June from where he is, taking in her sheer silver dress, her ageless complexion, her self-righteous arrogance.

"My father knows I'm here. Our meeting has no risk to me, no bearing on what happens next. I'm here because you don't make the slightest difference to _anything._ And what's more, even though I'm right here — my father's treasure in your very office, all the _glory_ you could never have — you can't do a damn thing to me."

His eyes are dark now. Dark as years gone by.

"I'm here to look my father in the eye," he says, "And it's got a little stye."

June closes her eyes a long moment. Robin's gaze has always been hard to hold, but none as hard as this. "I used to wonder why he picked you three,” she murmurs, “I understand now."

"And how many still remain? Perhaps he should have picked more wisely." The darkness has lifted from Robin’s gaze somewhat. "Hey, why don’t I tell _you_ a story, mom?"

It’s clear June doesn’t know what to expect, but she folds her arms anyway.

"Sure."

He clears his throat theatrically. "Once there was a little boy who ran away from home. And then," Robin continues solemnly, "everyone died. The end."

Silence.

"What can I say, I like realism."

June shakes her head.

"Be honest, Robin,” she says, changing the subject without poise; it seems she’s tired of this charade, “I'm sure you already know Decade has control over the police department. Offing September is child's play, and cops know how to turn a case cold in no time flat. Last chance. Go home and your father will leave your friend alone." Pause. "You know he always keeps his word."

"I know,” Robin says. “Redmond knows. And Redmond would be offended if I gave up that easily. Because I'd be giving up on him."

He stands up.

"This is my declaration of war. I know he's listening. I'll see you," he says to the room at large, "at Circle."

June stays seated as he heads to the door and opens it.

To see September standing beside June's secretary, a paper bag is clutched in his hand.

"Junie? Perfect. I wanted to—" he cuts himself off. "I apologise, I thought you were Ms. Cobalt."

Robin hesitates.

"We were just finishing up, weren't we, Mr. Banks." June is by Robin's side in an instant. A whisper into Robin's ear, discrete, well-practiced, surely too soft for any microphone to catch, "It's too late for me, but you'd better not ruin _him."_

"Sentiment," Robin mutters in return. "Lovely."

Then he turns to the waiting detective, "Yeah! Just about done with my grand interview piece about marching band in high school." He leans in — "Believe _all_ the stereotypes. The gayest club? You're damn right it is."

September leans away from the ruffled-looking kid subtly, eyes trained on June. "Mhm. Good luck with that."

Robin saunters off, taking his time. His attention focused behind him all the while. Just as well the lift’s taking forever, too.

September’s already gravitating towards June, who only remains in the doorway.

"Junie. Sorry to pop by on short notice, I know I should've called—"

"Yes, you should've. But that's alright. Want to come in and talk?"

September pauses. Robin deduces an offer like that is out of the norm. "No, it's, um, alright. I know you're busy. I just wanted to… here." He holds out the paper bag.

"Another? I have enough of these to remember you by, Temby."

"Old habits," says September, sheepish. "Um… anyway, I uh, I got another case. So."

"Good luck," says June, curt.

"Thanks. It's a big one. It's out of the blue, but… My squad’s officially on a case at Circle Street, Ven just dropped it on us an hour ago. The guy finally let me enough leash to run things my way. And he even signed me a warrant. Without my asking, can you believe him?"

"What _is_ the deal with Circle Street anyway? Don't tell me it's that weird horse statue _again."_

"It's not a teepee this time. It's um, … dangerous. The real deal." September takes a deep breath. "But I don't think you need to worry. Shouldn't be anything too outlandish, so don't fret over it, okay?"

"Okay."

The lift marks its arrival with a chime. Robin steps in the lift and soundly presses the 'open' button several times. His eyes are on June the whole time.

June laughs teasingly as she says, "You're just being paranoid now, Temby. You should stop wasting your time coming here and freaking me out."

_(I warn him every time I see him.)_

September's smile is soft. "I know. But I just need to make sure." He says, then adds, "You're my lucky charm, you know!"

"Don't be silly. You’ll be fine." She pats him on the shoulder, then steps back. "Is there anything else?"

"Guess not." September clears his throat and straightens. "Well, uh, I'll just, go. You take care."

But the lift door’s already closing and Robin's bidding his final farewell, calling out loud and clear — "Bye, mom! See you next weekend!"

September turns to June sharply and she says, immediately, "This is _not_ what it seems. He thinks I'm a nag. Called me _mom_ for the whole two-hour interview. Kid tried to break the ice by introducing himself as my estranged son, for crying out loud."

September blinks. “Huh.”

"Kids," says June with a shrug. “One more reason not to have them, right.”

September gives the lift another long look. “Yeah.”

 

Back in her office and alone, June picks up the call she'd been waiting for and answers, with a dry throat, "Good afternoon, sir."

"Cobalt. Above and beyond, as usual."

"I didn't think you would speak to me personally, sir. I hope the footage is satisfactory."

"One would think he runs around in these senseless disguises exactly because he knows I'm watching. Hmmm. It is rather elaborate, wouldn't you agree? I quite like the touch with the gloves."

"Of course, sir."

"What do you think of him?"

"E-Excuse me, sir?"

"You came to some realisation as to why I chose him. Let me hear your guess."

June's knuckles tighten around her chair.

"There's no need to be tense, Cobalt. You have permission to get things wrong."

A shaky breath and she begins, slowly, "He knows he's at war with you, sir, and he uses his pieces well. And he… knows you better than his pieces."

"Half correct. His one error is in calling our exchange a war." A smile is in his words. "Well, I suppose I could save him some embarrassment by making it one."

 _Making_ it a war — hasn’t it been enough of one yet? Into the silence, June says, "Of course, sir. I'll keep you updated."

"Do. You have my sincerest gratitude — I will be going through this footage for many nights yet. The boy hasn't yet learned to change his voice to suit the occasion and I adore how beautifully honest it always is."

A pause.

"One more thing, Cobalt — about Redmond."

June's heart sinks. "What about him?"

Silence.

She protests, "I'm trying to get intel out of him like you asked, sir, I—"

"I do not like settling, sweetheart. Much less for _'trying'._ I have overlooked your breaking up with Redmond all those years ago, do not make me settle twice. Put a little more soul into it, won't you?"

"Don't you have another contact in the force? September can’t be all that helpful. I don't see how—"

"You test my patience?"

June bites back the rest of it.

"Redmond is the principal investigator on this case, which makes him _the_ most important piece in this puzzle, Cobalt, regardless of what other players there are. I should not have to spoon feed you every step of the way. If you wanted a bigger role in my plans, you should have kept to the ones I made for you."

"I'm sorry, sir. I understand September is instrumental to your goals."

"Correct. Then you should also know your ice is thinning, Cobalt. Make only perfect plays from now on."

"Understood, sir."

The man at the other end of the line hums. His usually monotone voice is light when he says, "That will be all for now. Pray we won't speak under circumstances similar to this."

The line cuts and June drops the phone on the table like it burned.

A war is on the horizon, and as things always are with Decade, it will not end until he obtains what he wants.


	14. Chapter 14

"And why the hell would I do that?"

"Why the fuck not? We're on a sinking ship, Marengo, you know that."

"No, I don't. Fort, what the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Fortnight plants his hands on the table he and Marengo share. Or rather, the one Marengo is sitting at while Fortnight paces around in front of it.

Cafe Time is closed, two hours earlier than usual. The bulbs outside burn in their lampposts.

"I'm saying," says Fortnight, "that we can get the fuck out of here."

Yesterday looks like he’s trying to melt into the ground. Fortnight gives him a meaningful, encouraging nod.

So he just sighs and smiles, "Come on Dawn, it'll be, um… fun! All the mafia pictures you could ever want! You can probably sell it all for a whole bunch of cash—”

"The only thing I’ll get for fighting Tempus is _death._ Always knew Fort was trying to land himself in hell, but _Yestie?_ You too?"

"Yestie’s got the sense to save himself, Dawn. And you? What the fuck are _you_  getting now?"

"Money,” she replies immediately, “Money and not dying."

"Like hell you can do that with Enn’s thumb on you all the fucking time! She’s still gonna off you when she’s done with you—”

“I’ll deal with it when it happens."

"You can't _fucking_ live like that!"

Fortnight’s hand finds a mug on the counter and he seems like he's about to fling it, before realising that a smashed window probably isn't the best thing for business. He puts it back, knuckles whitened around it.

"There's a fucking speck on this," he mutters, marching to the back counter to wash the mug.

Now that Fortnight’s out of earshot, Dawn turns to the last self-preserving mind in this place. Yesterday’s gone tense all over, a rabbit caught in the headlights of a sixteen-wheeler.

"Yestie. Come on. You can’t be okay with this."

"I… no! I'm not okay, I'm terrified. I don’t want to go against…" he trails off, he can’t even manage saying the name. “But… but Fort's right. Dad'll off me first chance he gets. Enn’s the least of my worries." His body gives an unconscious shiver.

Dawn gives him an incredulous look. “Yeah, suit yourself, but I don’t care about that. I’m just trying to have a halfway decent life before it all goes to shit.”

Yesterday pauses, glances over to the sink where Fortnight is scrubbing furiously at the mug, and doesn’t reply at first.

"There won't be another chance like this one,” Yesterday finally goes on, “It's really now or never.”

Dawn's getting reluctantly curious, despite herself.

"What are you planning?"

"The goddamn _revolution."_ Fortnight lopes back from the sink, drying the mug off with a towel. He seems to have settled a little.

“Give me one good reason why this time’s gonna be different,” says Dawn.

“Redmond,” says Fortnight. “Mr. Cop of all Cops. We just gotta make sure he doesn’t fuck shit up.”

“He took Enn’s bait.”

“Yeah, then he went and fucking _raided_ the warehouse,” snorts Fortnight. “And now he's gonna take down Circle. No one gets that far."

"I still think raiding Karika was a dumb idea. I would've booked it and hoped never to see anything of the sort again." Yesterday says with a slight smile.

Dawn gestures as if to say, _See? That’s the sensible thing to do._ Fortnight rolls his eyes.

“They’re _letting_ him,” continues Dawn. “Look, Redmond’s smart — smart enough to stop calling me after the deal with the warehouse — but he’s not perfect. Even the most perfect cops don’t stand a chance against Tempus.”

“You’re right. They’re letting him, and he’s not perfect,” says Yesterday with a strange little smile, “But he’s also getting a ton of help.”

"Help,” echoes Dawn incredulously, “Who’s crazy enough to help you?”

Fortnight slings the towel over his shoulder. "Who d’you think, dumbass? There's a guy on the inside."

"Really?” Dawn's not convinced. “How in we talking?"

"Like _fucking_ deep in. Used to be."

"Used to be?"

“He’s got more power than me,” says Yesterday.

“And that’s why the old man’s going off his fucking rocker,” Fortnight adds. “Nobody stirs up this kind of shit if there’s no chance it’ll work.”

Yesterday nods. "They’ve got their sights on him, and on Redmond. That’s where all the action is. For once they’re not looking our way.”

_They’re not expecting me, of all people, to fight back._

"Nightnight and I, we make one move too soon and they’ll know. But you. You're clean. Enn sends you to all the important places. They give you important tasks. _Tempus_ needs its eyes. Needs you.”

He pauses, lowers his voice.

"I can protect you. And Nightnight. All of us. But only if we win."

Dawn smirks just a little. "Yeah, 'cos of your _dad_ connections, huh? What're you doing here, huh? Life-changing field trip to humble yourself—"

"Shut the dumb fuck.” Fortnight throws his towel at Dawn.

Yesterday doesn't laugh.

Half to himself, he murmurs, "Dad connections, huh.”

His eyes are dull.

Dawn half-expects Fortnight to say something, but he doesn’t.

Yestie just keeps staring at the salt and pepper shakers on the table. Finally, with effort, he lifts his gaze.

A deep, deep shadow lurks in his eyes.

"Pick a side, Marengo. You in? Or out?"

Dawn startles, briefly. Sizing Yestie up like they’re meeting for the first time.

Finally, she says, "Let's hear it. Name your price."

 _"Fuck,_ Marengo, Yestie’s already gonna protect you—"

"Triple what Redmond paid you," says Yestie.

Fortnight turns abruptly to Yestie. “The fuck—”

"Oh, unless you think that's still undervaluing your life? I remember you were quite concerned about not dying.” Yestie folds his arms on the table. “No, Dawn. _You_ name _your_ price. I want to buy your absolute loyalty."

Dawn stares, and Yestie stares back.

"Ten times."

"The _fuck,"_ says Fortnight.

as Yestie says "Done" without hesitation, and sticks out his hand.

Dawn shakes it, pats Yesterday's hand curtly and lets it go. Their deal’s made.

Then the tension’s gone, quick as a flash, with Yesterday leaning back with one of his usual sheepish grins. "Great to have you on board, you know? Show that woman who's boss, and all that. Right, Nightnight?"

Fortnight leans against the counter, arms folded. He's smiling, thin and razor sharp. "Right. But still, the fuck."

"Saved up my allowance,” explains Yesterday, self-conscious. “For emergencies."

"What the _fuck_ is your allowance."

"Didn't mean to hide it from you, Nightnight, I promise."

"So what do we do now?" asks Dawn.

Yesterday stays silent for a good while, and Fortnight lets him. Then finally, "We get ready. If I know anything about Dad, he’s going to make this a war.”

 

_The target is female, roughly 170cm, brown hair and green eyes. Likely armed and highly, highly dangerous. Shoot on sight, but do not kill. Capture her and bring her back for interrogation._

_The suspect has ties to Tempus. Do not let her get away unscathed. I want everyone’s full cooperation. We only have one shot at this and we cannot afford to screw this up._

From their vantage point on Circle Street they see two scruffy hooligans approach the fourth lamppost and hand over something in exchange before drifting away. So their lead about the drug ring had been accurate —

but had they done street work here like they’d planned, people would certainly have died.

September realised this a day before the sting, when Dawn flung pebbles at his window and bade him come down with a finger held across her lips.

She was armed with a stack of photographs.

He hadn't wanted to trust her — his leg still ached, especially on cold nights — but she seemed faintly apologetic, and he couldn't turn down the coaster she handed him, signed with two signatures he could faintly make out as Fortnight and Yesterday's.

 _‘Target: Ann. In Dawn’s photos’_ was written underneath. So Fortnight and Yesterday seemed to trust her, and _Monday_ seemed to trust Fortnight and Yesterday in turn.

Besides, it was really fucking hard _not_ to believe that this was the true objective of Circle Street, because the woman in the photographs had been armed with rifles on rifles, armed to kill. The photographs were dated across multiple days — the shooter had been _waiting for them._

Whoever Monday was fighting, they nearly outplayed him.

So here they are, discreetly spreading out across the roofs and the streets below to cut off the suspect’s escape, gambling an entire squadron's resources on the clues that had been delivered to them — snapshots, slightly pixelated but true, of that brown-haired woman and flashes of those deep jade eyes. September recognised the eyes of a killer even through the grain — and eventually the best officers of the Conrad Police Department are poised to storm the single run-down apartment.

And they’ve been here for days. Waiting for a sign, _any_ sign, that their target’s inside and none the wiser —

A shadow moves in the building, followed by a shifting chair.

A woman's silhouette.

It’s what they’ve been waiting for. September gestures.

_Go._

The CPD springs into action.

 

Mina and Paul are already watching the woman called Ann when September finally arrives at the observation room. "You two still holding up fine?"

"Yeah," says Paul, not taking his eyes off Ann through the two-way mirror. "But something doesn't feel right."

"Yeah." September folds his arms. "Tell me about it."

Ann, like most people who might have watched a police drama before, knows where the hidden window is.

She looks at it openly.

Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, with just a few strands escaping from the journey to the police station.

One of the officers had been rough. Redmond had told him off, reminded him how dangerous their captive was. To which Ann might have smiled to herself just a bit. But it's hard to tell her expression now.

September studies that deep green gaze. Her eyes had been pretty lifeless in the photographs, but it’s nothing compared to seeing them in real life.

"So. Ann, huh?” Mina says. She’s trying to sound confident. “Those kids said that was her name? Doesn't show up in any records. Not that I thought it would."

“Probably a code name, like everyone else’s,” replies September.

Mina turns to him. "Is Ven coming?"

September glances at his watch, his phone, the empty stairwell. "Maybe." 

He sighs, then heads over to the table to look at the paperwork. "Right. Interrogation. We assume she had no part in the Karika Fishery shooting, since we have no evidence for that. For now let's start by asking if she knows anything about the crack distributors."

"And all her weapons," adds Paul. "She must have those guns for a reason."

September nods. "And if possible, we can ask her what she's waiting in stakeout for."

Paul floats over to Mina, carefully folding an arm around her waist. "Will you be okay?" He's concerned.

"'Course I'll be fine." Mina absently wraps her own arm around Paul's shoulders. Still looking at Ann. "Best interrogator on the force, remember?”

“And you did a body search, right, Paul?” mutters September to dissolve some of the nervousness.

"I frisked her and found nothing," says Paul. "She's properly disarmed."

“It’ll be fine. She’ll talk.” Mina breathes in, out. "Okay. So crack, weapons, target. How about the thumbdrive stuff?"

September shakes his head no. "Nobody knows we have it. But… ask her if she knows anything about a thief."

"The Pewter mall thief?" Paul asks. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

"If she doesn’t know the thumbdrive from Karika was stolen, then it doesn’t matter." September pauses. “Watch yourself in there, Mina.”

“Got it, boss.” Mina crosses her arms, exhaling long and hard through her nose. "What if she wants this? What if it's just another trap?"

Ann had, after all, given herself up without a fight. Zero casualties, zero injuries. September himself was a little let down at the operation. He glances to the stairwell again. Maybe Ven would have other ideas, but they can’t wait — Ven had already told them to waste no time, in no uncertain words, and evidence had a way of vanishing after the first few crucial hours —

September frowns. "Cuff her?"

"She _is_ cuffed,” says Mina.

Paul nods. "Locked her in myself, boss. She isn't going anywhere."

It's hard to tell, since Ann has barely struggled.

One more glance at the stairwell — doesn’t seem Ven can get here in time, guess he’s still busy wrapping up the paperwork for the raid on Circle — before September sighs and turns to Mina. "Well, whenever you're ready, Mina. You know how to ask for help if you need it."

"Got it."

Mina slips out of Paul's arms and steps into the room without a second glance behind her.

 

Even cuffed to the table, even with her sniper visor ripped off and every blade and bullet at least six corridors away, Ann still looks dangerous.

Her gaze alone could kill. Not now — there's no intent there. But it could.

"Miss Ann," says Mina, striding forward with her hands clasped behind her back. Subtly mirroring Ann's ice. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Ann blinks. When she speaks, her voice is very soft. "I'm sorry…?"

"Pretty sure you wouldn't be here if you didn't want to. And lucky for you, we're prepared to listen." Mina plants her hands on the table. "So hurry up."

"I would like my phone call."

"This isn't the movies, Ann, you don't get one."

"Please."

It's almost a child's voice. Not the kind of voice one expects from a top level sniper armed with highly illegal firearms.

Mina doesn't budge.  "You're in no position to make demands."

"I'm not making demands," replies Ann. "Please? I’m just asking nicely."

"I could keep you here forever," says Mina. Not so nicely. "We don't _have_ to listen to you. We could lock you up and keep out of our way till all this is over."

"Would you kill me?"

There's no emotion in her words.

Mina holds her own. "Only in self-defence."

"Oh."

Ann falls silent again.

Mina says, "Are you done messing around? Let's get started."

She brandishes a file and spreads its contents on the table. It’s evidence: pictures of the stakeout room, the view from the window. The Circle Street lamppost shining beyond its glass.

"Let's start with tonight. What's so special about Circle, huh? Why all the VIP treatment?"

Ann says nothing. She doesn't even react. She just stares at Mina with her green, blank eyes — eyes that could appease the dead.

"We don't have all night, Ann," Mina says, cutting through the silence.

But the intercom picks up something else. Something that Mina's almost too focused to hear.

It sounds like a phone ringing.

The intercom buzzes and September’s voice filters through. _"Cara. I'm sending Paul in. Ann is not to touch her phone."_

"No, wait."

Mina's frozen, gaze fixed on Ann. Ann gazes back.

"I don't think it's a phone." She handles each word carefully; she doesn't believe them. "I think it's… coming from —"

As if on cue, Ann opens her mouth.

There's a small device in there, balanced in the centre of Ann's tongue.

It's hard to tell what it is. But as Mina leans over and cranes her head to look, it's clear there's a speaker on it.

"Surrender it, Miss Ann." Mina swiftly bends over the table to pluck the speaker from Ann's tongue —

_“Mina, wait for assistance before you—”_

— and Ann's teeth close around Mina's fingers.

 

_(Jamie Clark, the sloppiest officer on the Conrad Police Department, bursts through the station entrance. And he looks sloppier than ever — badge tangled around his chubby neck, shirt barely tucked into his pants, and it almost looks like his moustache is literally falling off._

_"Clark?" exclaims the front desk officer. "I thought you were off sick till next week!"_

_"Sorry, darling, duty calls!"_

_"Don't you dare flirt with me, Clark—!")_

 

Mina shouts, yanking her arm back. The device is tight in her grip, but blood's definitely been drawn.

The device in Mina’s hand crackles. It could be static, or laughter.

"Fuck — drop it, Mina! Now!"

September’s immediately in the room, pushing Ann down on the table, holding her wrists and making sure she's immobilized.

The static crystallises. September becomes aware of someone speaking through it. A woman that sounds exactly like Ann, except confident, smiling, coy — like a sweet tooth. _"…playing the wrong game, here."_

"Identify yourself!" September growls.

 _"Things aren't dire enough for you to know my identity, Lieutenant Redmond. Anonymity is a lot less painful for you."_ A pause. _"And release the poor lady, you can see how frail she is."_

September resists the urge to look around for a camera. "Explain your motives. I know you want to talk. And I know who you're working for—"

Another tinny laugh. _"Oh, September. Sorry to burst your bubble, but you really have no idea."_

"What do you fucking want."

_"This whole thing was a setup, you see. To demonstrate some kindness. Something like showing mercy to wounded animals and letting them rot away peacefully. And with this, our objectives are complete. You have your wound. And now we'd prefer if you—"_

"We won’t take this lying down." September's grip tightens slightly around Ann's wrists and she lets out a little breathy gasp like she’s in pain.

_"I don’t give a shit what you want, Lieutenant. I’m sure you can be bright. So be bright."_

September growls in frustration, then shouts, "Paul! Get your ass in here!”

Paul snaps out of his terrified stupor and stumbles in, towards Mina —

 

_(Clumsy, bumbling Jamie Clark hurtles down the corridors with more purpose than he's ever had in his fifteen years on the force._

_No one really knows where he's going — those who encounter him assume he's rushing to take a huge dump, and all hell will break loose if he's too late—)_

 

— Mina's fingers are still bleeding, her breathing shallow. Her eyes glazed over as Paul holds her gently. "M-Mina, you look, you… oh god, are you okay? Talk to me?"

 _"Mina's not going to live,"_ says the voice from the speaker.

September hauls Ann upright. "You!" It must be some poison lining her teeth, or a hidden needle somewhere. "Tell me what you’ve done! Right now!"

_"Ann won't talk. She's under orders —”_

"Paul, get Mina to the medic. _Now!"_

_“ — but I promise I’m a decent conversation partner."_

Paul gathers Mina in his arms but between her weight and his terror he can’t quite get to the door — September takes one last look at Ann's cuffs before striding forward to help them out of the room.

"I think it's poison," says Paul shakily. He's not looking at her.

September murmurs into Mina's ear, "Come on, girl. You're a tough one. Stay with us."

"Yeah," Mina breathes, barely audible. "Fuck that, I'm not — I’m not g-going anywhere."

And before they can get out of the waiting room, the door slams open and there's Jamie Clark, who appears to have taken a wrong turn on the way to the shitter.

He takes everything in — the evidence scattered across the interrogation table, the speaker, Cara dying slowly in de Vis' arms.

And his eyes settle right on Redmond as the Lieutenant says, "Jamie? What are you—"

No, not Jamie. He knows those bright blue eyes anywhere.

It’s _Monday Blue._ And he looks pathetic. His moustache slides to the left. His double chin droops and wobbles in all the wrong ways. All in all, it's a disguise his grandmother would be ashamed to put together.

Staring into September's eyes, it's almost like he's about to crumble. Like there's a wall that's about to collapse.

They both need each other’s help, and they know this.

September almost doesn’t dare to speak in case the thief vanishes before his eyes. "M _…_ Monday? How did _…_ What are you doing here?"

The speaker crackles. "The _Monday Blue?"_ says the voice, smiling wide. _"This must be fate.”_

Monday’s whole body _flinches_ at that voice—

_“It's been a while."_

—and there's nothing but loathing, and fear, and regret in his eyes as he disappears.

September turns to the speaker but his gaze focuses beyond that — at the slender leg disappearing up and into a vent in the ceiling.

"Shit, boss, she's fading." Mina's slumped more weakly in Paul's arms and the man sounds like he's on the brink of breaking something.

The door swings shut in Monday's wake.

September needs to choose.

"Call an ambulance.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, his eyes darting helplessly from the dark vent in the ceiling, the fake police badge fallen on the floor, his comrade — his _friend_ — dying right before his eyes—

His gun is in his hand as he gives chase, as he always has, after Monday.

 

Leaving the interrogation room is harder than Paul imagined. People keep stopping him to ask all the wrong questions, all the questions Paul wants answers to but doesn't have either.

Nobody, nobody knows what to do with Mina Cara.

Her eyelids have fluttered shut again — Paul taps on her cheek. "Mina? Baby, open your eyes for me. Please."

Mina complies weakly, with just a sliver of the irises visible. Just across from the front entrance, they look purple in the lamplight filtering in.

"P… Paul," she says. "I—"

Paul holds her closer, pushing a strand of her black hair out of her face. "Yeah, baby, just k-keep talking, okay? You gotta stay conscious. D-Don't, don't fall asleep. You'll be fine." He runs a hand down her pallid face, pressing his warmth into her stiffening cheek. "Shit, baby, I'm sorry I couldn't help you."

A siren wails thinly through the double doors. Paramedics burst through, followed by reporters (it's not every day an ambulance pulls up beside a police station) — somehow, Chief Pemberton's already fielding questions from the press in his measured, cagey way, answering everything and yielding nothing.

He gives Paul a look as Mina's stretcher slips behind him, away from at least some of the cameras. On first glance it looks apologetic — like maybe Ven would rather be sending Mina to the hospital himself but he has to stay here, where his duty lies — but Paul has no time to think anything else before they reach the ambulance at last.

With the doors opened wide to greet them, Mina tries to speak one last time around the oxygen mask muffling her words, and Paul can barely hear her when she says, "Sorry," choking on every word like ice. "Sorry. Paul."

She’s whisked into the ambulance before he can answer. A paramedic comes up to him, and — yes, he’d like to follow, p-please, if he can, yes in the back with her,  _please_ — and he’s soon beside her again, twining her limp fingers between his.

His mind races.

What was it that September had said? Back then after the search in Karika?

_I just want you two to be careful. If things go to shit then we’ll know we can’t trust those coffee boys…_

Paul’s other hand, the one gripping the stretcher, goes white.

Fortnight and Yesterday, they’re Tempus, aren’t they? He’ll make them pay.

"Everything's gonna be okay, baby," Paul says, and Mina does not answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CPD — Conrad Police Department


	15. Chapter 15

And Monday Blue — _The_ Monday Blue — runs.

He could, indeed, be finished here. As soon as he heard the police had raided a dingy apartment above Circle, instead of tracking down the networks laced across Circle itself. As soon as he knew its inhabitant had gone down without a fight.

If only, if only he'd used more pieces on the board besides one.

Decade is closing in so he runs, as far from the station as possible.

He could indeed be finished here. Unless he runs faster than he's ever run before.

But with every turn it seems the noose is tightening. Not that he could expect any different — Decade has always been a better planner. A more ruthless planner. The glint of a muzzle on the roof sends him down to the roads, and that’s when he realises every corner’s already been marked by a pair of eyes, funneling him down a fixed path like a rat into a cage.

And so he finds himself at a dead end — backed up against the flaking wall of a closed-down shophouse with three gunmen daring him to make a move.

He could kill them.

_He could kill them._

But there’s a movement from behind one of them. Then, the familiar washed-out blue of the CPD. The muzzle of a familiar Glock.

"Put your hands up!” That voice. He knows that voice. “You're under arrest for multiple counts of burglary, obstruction of justice, damage to public property…"

The gunmen step aside, taken aback by the new arrival. It's not usual for a copper to rattle off charges before he's caught his criminal. But Lieutenant Redmond keeps going, his eyes locked with Monday’s — those eyes have always been so easy to read, and after months he can now read them perfectly — _Trust me._

Monday could kill him too, really. He could think of a hundred ways.

But he lets the detective finish. With three guns at his back, he plays the dumb cop perfectly as he stops in front of Monday and reaches out for his wrists.

"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Everything you say can and will be used in a court of law…"

Then a sudden movement — who knew slow, steady Redmond could move so swiftly — has Monday's face and chest against the wall, his wrists secured behind him. And with a dramatic roughness that’s never lived in his voice before, September grits his teeth and growls, "I'm putting you away for a long time."

And turns, keeping Monday close, out of the line of fire. From behind his shoulder, Monday can see that all the guns are gone — vanished under jackets and blazers.

"Is there something I can help you with, guys?" the officer barks. He’s met with silence. "No? Well if you got anything to add, you can come with me to the station."

There’s still no response to be had. September pushes Monday out of the alley and into a police car parked by the roadside. He opens the door and says soft enough only for him to hear, "After you."

The whole time, Monday seems altogether shocked. It should be the worst possible scenario for the city's greatest thief — the modern Robin Hood — the runaway son.

But when the car doors close on him and all is silent, all he really feels is one thing —

Relief.

"Dr. Timotheus," says Monday, when September gets into the front of the car and they're alone. "Tell Mr. de Vis to get a hold of Dr. Timotheus once they're at the hospital. Technically he's in urology, but… you get my drift."

Wordlessly, September takes out his phone and fires off a few messages — no doubt relaying the message to Paul and the hospital staff.

And then… he just stares straight ahead. Taking deep, shuddering breaths. Monday can see his hand as he starts the car to bring them back to the precinct. It’s shaking.

"You're welcome," says Monday to the back of September's chair, in a way that really means _thank you._

The detective looks up then, just briefly, his honest eyes obscured in the shadowy mirror. Is he grateful? Surprised?

Perhaps Monday has no right to know.

He rests his head against the window and closes his eyes.

 

They'd taken Mina to the ECU with wires and tubes trailing over her chest. Through the entire ride, Paul hadn't let go of her hand. Not until the paramedics had pulled him off. He wanted her to know he was there, just in case might've been able to feel it.

Dr. Timotheus, as Lieutenant Redmond had said, was ready and waiting for the new patient. The mousey doctor started giving orders like he'd been waiting for this to happen for ages.

Mina looked so much smaller and more fragile on the stretcher and Paul couldn’t do anything but watch as they wheeled her away.

Paul managed to catch the doctor just before he left, stammering out a "W-Will she be okay?"

He hadn’t expected a reply. Frankly, he didn’t want a reply. Not knowing the truth was kinder. It hurt less. And he didn’t know what he’d do if he—

Dr. Timotheus had only a pitiful look for him in reply. Paul didn’t know what he was expecting. But receiving _this…_ was even worse.

“We’ll call you, Mr. de Vis,” the nurses said as he stared and stared at the closed doors of the ER, mind full of barbed cotton and shapeless static,

_—if things go to shit then we’ll know we can’t trust those coffee boys—_

and he comes back to himself pushing open the doors to Cafe Time, aiming his gun around the darkened interior, safety off and ready to fire.

“CPD! Hands on your head or I’ll shoot! _Now!”_

Chairs are stacked upside down on the tables, a towel flung over the cups on the counter. Clearly the cafe is closed for business, even if it’s two hours early.

And there, square in frame of the open backroom entrance,

— with one hand in the pocket of his denim jacket like always, slouch conspicuously absent; and beneath the shock of searing pink hair, grey eyes as calm and keen as a knife —

stands Fortnight, staring down the barrel of a revolver.

"Ohhhhh _shit,”_ he deadpans, “Lookit this police boy waving a goddamn _gun_ around. Better call me 'sir' and back the fuck down, ‘cos I don't need any conditions to kill you."

"L-Like you didn't need conditions to send us all to die? Huh?" Paul's voice hitches. "Mina was in _pain._ September thought he could trust you. Mina, she — god, I thought you were _helping_ us!"

"Yeah, we thought we were helping you too. But turns out, we don't know everything. We fucked up. Sorry."

"Sorry's not enough. And now she's dying. She's _dying_ and nobody can do a _fucking_ thing to help her!"

Paul sniffs. His eyes remain hard.

"Mafia boy's got some explaining to do."

"Get Dr. Timotheus.” Fortnight’s gun doesn’t waver. “He’ll fix her. It’ll be fine.”

"Don't try pretending to care about her. You put her in this mess. You dragged her into... into all your _shit!"_

"No, we didn't fucking drag nobody into this. Not you, not Cara, not your boss. It was your friend. That _Monday."_

"Yeah! Shift the blame! It's what they all do! "Tell me _everything_ or I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you."

Paul takes a few steps forward, fingers tightening.

"We done _told_ you everything,” says Fortnight, plainly. “There ain't anything left to fucking say. We wanted to take down some bad guys like you dumb cops. Except we ain't cops. We _fucked up.”_

“Fucked up doesn’t begin to _cover_ it, you fuck. You got a plan to fix this mess? What else are you hiding from us? Start _fucking telling me what I wanna hear—"_

A movement in the far corner of the room.

It’s Yesterday, an arm’s length behind Fortnight, looking like a deer caught in a bear trap.

 _"You,”_ snarls Paul, turning to face him. A shiver runs down the barista’s body. “Mr. _I wanna nail everything over the counter._ But I know. Under your smile and your charms. You’re a smart one. You the brains behind all this?”

Yesterday’s throat bobs, his fingers clenched white around his cardigan.

“Not gonna fucking talk?” Paul's voice roughens. “Quit playing dumb. Tell me what else you're fucking planning to do or I’ll shoot—"

_Blam._

Fortnight hasn’t moved, but a bullet clinks on the ground beside his worn-down once-white sneakers.

"Brains made me promise one warning shot," he says. “Get your fucking gun off him, now."

Paul’s eyes flick back to Fortnight’s. _Yesterday’s not armed; Fortnight is._ And Fortnight still hasn’t shot him. He can still—

His gun is smashed out of his hand, porcelain shards slicing tiny little cuts all over his skin.

Brains threw the cup when Paul’s guard was down, and now they’re just trying to make a quick escape outta here. It pisses Paul off not because he should’ve seen it coming but because it worked so fucking well, his gun’s now under the booth seat and one of the bigger shards is lodged deep in his hand, his _shooting_ hand — there’s no way he’ll make a good shot like this.

But he can still fight.

Yesterday places a shaking hand on Fortnight's shoulder. "Nightnight, _please,_ w-we still need him—"

Paul rushes the pink-haired boy. He seems to be expecting this, he’s pocketing his gun with a deep sigh — good, Paul wouldn’t accept anything less —

_Shit, he moves fast._

Fortnight drops low and then the room’s spinning. The floor rushes up to meet him. A handful of coins rain down from the smashed register.

_Oh, he’s hit._

Paul can’t get up, not immediately, because he’s still gasping for breath around the stabbing pain in his back from where Fortnight had slammed him into the counter's edge.

And all he can think is _good, an excuse to kill him._

From faraway, Paul makes out Yesterday’s voice trembling. "Nightnight, we gotta go."

“In a minute, a’ight?”

“No, _no,_ we can’t kill him!”

 _“Look_ at him, Yestie, he fucking came in here with a fucking gun _—”_

The boys jump apart to dodge the cashier drawer flung their way amidst a shower of coins.

Paul’s coming round the counter as the notes flutter to the ground, soft brown eyes muddied with bloodlust. The initial shock’s given him all the adrenaline he needs. He’s wound up tight, and even with nothing but a baton in his hands, he’s brought down bigger bullies with less —

And his opponent knows that look, flashing a crooked smirk as his hand moves.

“This fuzz ain’t letting us go without a goddamn _deathmatch."_

A flurry of white circles upon circles upon circles, in dizzying numbers —

And a flash of purest silver.

But Paul’s ready.

And they’re up against each other again, feet slipping on Fortnight’s paper coasters fallen to the ground, two of his glinting knives wedged up against the baton of the best hand-to-hand combatant in the CPD.

“Ka fucking ching, _bitch,”_ grins Fortnight, “You’re gonna have to—” meets Paul’s first strike, “fucking—” his second, his third fourth fifth, “pay for that—”

Paul’s knee finds Fortnight’s gut, smashes him so hard against the cake display that pastries go sliding.

“Eat shit,” Paul grits through a smile. But Fortnight matches it, his hand already reaching out for as many glasses as he can grab out of the sink.

"Go!" he barks at Yesterday.

Swings his knife. Paul feints, only barely dodging the cups Fortnight swings at him.

Yesterday’s still frozen in the doorway.

“Get outta here!”

Fortnight follows swiftly with his other fist and Paul takes it — badly — something cracks as his knuckles come away, silver rings dripping furious red.

But Paul doesn’t go down, not yet.

His hands clamp on Fortnight’s arm, yanks the boy close, right up against his murky gaze —

_You want a piece of me, mafia boy?_

— he hoists the boy up and over his shoulder, sending him flying against one of the tables. Fortnight yells as the wood splinters and splits beneath him.

He’s winded. Paul grabs a nearby chair — _metal legs, he wants it to hurt_ — drives it down.

Fortnight wrenches his body out of the way. The ruined table gives under the blow.

Then he yells again, “Yestie, _GO!”_

It’s like Paul hears it for the first time. _Yestie._ He whirls around to meet the other barista, who lets out a satisfying little whimper. If Paul can get to him he can use the runt as leverage—

“Oh no you fucking don’t—”

His ankle snaps, he’s on the ground, Fortnight’s arm snaking around his neck and wrenching up, back, tighter and tighter—

“You’re fighting _me,_ you dirty fuck!”

Paul snarls breathlessly, eyes darting from the ruined tables around him to the figure in the door.

He tries to scramble off the ground and give chase but Fortnight just pins him down with his weight, kneeing hard into a bruise forming on his back, and he can do nothing but kick and scrape his soles on the floor as Yestie gets away, _shit, he needs air —_

and his fingers finally close around a pepper shaker amidst the debris. He swings it backwards, over and over and— 

Blood splatters on the floor and he hits again, harder.

 _Finally._ He draws breath. And rams his elbow back into the boy’s ribs.

“Ah — _Fuck!”_

Paul’s scrambling onto his feet. Tries to regain his balance. Tries to blink the room into focus.

He’s only on his knees when he registers the shape of a chair but by then it’s too late, he’s on the ground again, a burst of spots catching half of his vision—

With a blind swipe Paul hooks his foot around the chair and—

Oh _god._

He can’t do anything but curl up into a pathetic ball.

Tears beading in his eyes. "F-Fuck!"

Legs pressed together like it’ll ease the pain.

_Can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t, can’t —_

"That was _fucking_ low," Paul spits, voice watery.

"I don't _fucking_ care," Fortnight says from above. And goes in for another kick.

 

Cafe Time is completely and utterly fucked. The fight drags itself up on its knees and breaks another three chairs and seven goddamn real mahogany tables before finally coming to a bloody standstill.

Fortnight’s pride and joy. Yesterday’s too. Shame, that.

De Vis rises across the room, his teeth stained scarlet and his baton long since splintered and tossed away — what a red demon pretending to be blue.

"If you don’t come back to the precinct," says de Vis, his words tripping on laboured breaths, "If you d-don't come back to the _fucking_ precinct I'll fucking kill you."

"Then do it.”

Fortnight’s just as fucked up. His hair’s wet — blood, for sure. One sleeve of his favorite jacket’s torn at the shoulder, almost to its last thread. But he's got one last knife in his hand and he’s not afraid to use it, like he’s done with its dozen cousins scattered around the linoleum floor.

 _"Do it,_ you coward,” Fortnight says. “Come and fucking kill me."

Paul regards him coldly for a long while. Then his bleeding hand disappears into the pocket of his windbreaker, and emerges with a taser.

He flicks it on. Fortnight hears it hum.

"I was saving this. You’ll die fast, because it hurts," he says, and it sounds like Paul intended it to be a joke. "Then I’ll drag your pathetic body back. And charge you for murder."

Never mind it doesn't make sense, Paul says it like it's the sweetest justice he's ever served.

Then falls to the floor like a rag.

Yesterday drops the chair in his hands and stumbles back, face pale. "Oh god, am _I_ gonna be charged for murder?"

“No. The fuck’s not dead,” Fortnight mutters blankly. He just stares at Yesterday, expression slack.

Asking Yesterday _what in the fuck._

Smiling, he can’t fight it, as Yesterday wrings his pale fingers.

"N… Nightnight, I'm sorry. I, I couldn't."

"Where were you the whole time, huh? Hiding behind the brooms while he beat the shit outta me?"

Yesterday puffs up, offended. "What, no! I ran like you told me to!"

“Good,” says Fortnight. “And?”

"Saw some of Decade’s runners coming this way…" he glances behind him, then sheepishly says, "I realised I couldn't let them take you."

Yesterday reaches up to his jacket pocket — Fortnight recognises the motion; it’s well-practiced.

“That’s a shit place to keep the knife I gave you,” says Fortnight.

“But I don’t have custom knife pockets in here like you do, Nightnight, my jacket’s not big enough for that,” Yesterday protests. Then, unable to hold himself back from mirroring Fortnight's relief, adds, "and it was useful for, erm, fucking shit up—"

“You could’ve gotten _caught_ out there.”

“All _right,_ Nightnight, I get it. Next time I’ll keep to fucking people with Little Yestie instead of with a knife, okay?”

 _"Not every time,”_ says Fortnight, _"is fuck time."_

It's more of a wheeze than anything. He is very tired.

"Fucking _fuck."_

Yesterday breaks into a breathless laugh. Fortnight can’t help it, he’s smiling too, as Yesterday comes over and carefully, carefully reaches over and slings Fortnight's arm around him. "Come on. I made some calls. We'll be safe for the next few days."

He steers them around Paul's motionless form, trying not to look at him.

"Fort… thanks."

Something dark shadows his gaze.

"What?" Fortnight asks bluntly. There's always a 'what' when Yesterday looks like that.

"Ah, no, I… I just hope Decade hasn't caught him yet. He's our only ticket out of here.” He chuckles with forced lightness. “Anyway, de Vis looks like he roughed you up pretty good. You getting rusty, Nightnight?"

Fortnight grumbles. "Not killing him was fucking hard.”

"Knew you could do it, Nightnight. When we're done with this mess, I'll clean Cafe Time up nice and proper and order the nice parquet you were telling me about the other day."

He reaches down and hooks one of Fortnight's non-bloodied pinkies around his own, helps Fortnight into a chair, then heads over to start picking up the weapons strewn all over the cafe.

Yesterday holds up a toothed knife. "I thought we agreed you'd throw this away?"

"It's fucking badass."

"I mean, _kinda,_ but it stains around the teeth. See?" Yesterday wipes it on a rag anyway. He pauses. “… Wait. Didn’t you use this to peel an orange yesterday?"

Fortnight shrugs sloppily with his less injured shoulder. "Who the fuck cares, it's a knife."

"Nightnight," says Yesterday, "What did I say about using weapons to eat."

_"I wiped all the orange off."_

“Did you wash it?” Yesterday gathers the last knife, hiding a smile.

Fortnight grits out, "My knives are, fucking, clean."

Yesterday hands the knives back to Fortnight, who wastes no time slotting them back into their rightful pockets, stains and blood and grime and all. Yestie’ll help him scrub them later, he knows that.

"Alright, let's get the hell out of here."

"Yeah."

Yesterday helps him out the back door. There's a grey car waiting for them, with a driver Fortnight doesn't recognise. "We’re visiting some old friends of mine," says Yesterday quietly, trying not to look at the three limp bodies bleeding in the alleyway. "They trust me with their lives."

They get in the back. Yesterday slips his fingers between Fortnight's and promptly rests his head against the other boy’s shoulder. Whatever’s on his mind, Fortnight doesn’t know.

It's always a little awkward — very tall Yesterday tilting over to lean on the shoulder of a very small Fortnight. But Fortnight's used to it.

It’ll take a while for him to relax. He’s scouring the car with a razor-sharp gaze, every inch of it, the handles, the back of the driver’s head.

Never in a million years would he think they’d be going up against the old man himself, but here they are. In a big pile of shit, fleeing like rats while the revolution begins all around them with fire and smoke.

But at least they’re together.

He leans his head on Yesterday's, squeezing his hand like their lives depend on it.


	16. Chapter 16

Back at the precinct, September shuts the door to the holding cell with Monday in it. With Ven taking his time with the press, there’s nobody else nosy enough to interrupt them.

The sight of Monday, _properly contained,_ just doesn’t sit right with him.

"Gotta keep up the pretense of me arresting you, no hard feelings,” he explains in lieu of an apology, “We need to talk.”

Monday carefully flicks a glob of latex off his neck.

His movements are slow, casual. Deliberately so.

"Nice place you got here," says Monday. "Airy. Spacious. Only the faintest scent of piss."

"Yeah. Drunken disorderly. Shouted a lot, pissed on all the corners and some of the perps and blacked out while singing All Star.”

September pauses. He’s pained when he continues.

“Explain yourself and I’ll unlock the door. Tell me everything you know. Who’s Ann? And what were you doing here?”

Monday approaches until he’s resting his hands against the bars. Looking at September.

"If you don't mind me asking, officer," he says. “You've spent the larger portion of our acquaintance trying to get me arrested. And now that you have me… you're going to let me go?"

"You’re saying acquaintances kiss each other during a heist, hold hands, and send each other home after they get wasted in a bar."

Monday raises his eyebrows. "I don't remember that! Must have been _well_ under the influence."

September ignores him. “Just start talking. A murderer is on the loose. We need to—"

"Hold on a minute," Monday cuts in. "What makes you think I won't just disappear?"

September straightens. His eyes dart to the combination lock by the door, the empty corners, all three windowless walls, then travels slowly down for Monday's person as he no doubt retraces the thorough frisking he'd done earlier.

He looks — _looks_ — at Monday, then folds his arms. "Okay, show me. Vanish. Disappear in the next twenty seconds."

Monday sighs, extracts a small, flat metal rod from his mouth and leisurely starts prying open the back of the lock.

September puts a hand on his face. _"Alright,_ point taken. I saved your ass from those guys, the very least you could do is tell me what you were doing at the precinct.”

Monday laughs and magicks the thin metal into thin air.

 _"Relax,_ Septie. I'm not going anywhere. You would know, since you saved my ass.”

The sour note in his voice, the dimness behind his eyes — it becomes clear that it’s neither flippancy nor contempt.

It's defeat.

"I'll repeat my earlier questions,” September says, voice hard. “What were you doing at the precinct. And how do you know Ann."

"I was trying to save Mina,” Monday replies. “I know, empty words. But when I knew you went right for Ann…” His voice is almost plaintive. "I didn't tell you to do that."

September breathes deeply. This is not the Monday he’s used to. He just says, "Yeah, you didn't. We set up a perimeter, observed the area. And then I made the call that Ann was the big fish we were after. It's protocol."

"You said _lamppost._ I should've made sure."

September goes on, gentler, "Officers come and go in the line of duty. It's what we signed up for. Mina’s situation is not your fault.”

“Then whose is it? Your coffee boys? You weren’t supposed to aim so high.”

He’s looking away, hand on his chin, cold blue eyes clouded in thought. _Cold_ — perhaps the first time September has ever thought of Monday that way, and he grits his teeth as though not to shiver.

Who the hell is Monday?

“So you... _wanted_ us on the streets? For Ann to pick us off one by one?”

“I was going to take care of her. Didn’t quite have the chance with all those cops crowding the door.”

Take care of her? September stares at Monday, disbelieving — remembering the rifles upon rifles in Ann’s room and her soulless killer eyes, her poisonous teeth and Mina barely breathing.

 _Take care_ of her — a killer?

No, Monday’s not just cold — he’s _arrogant._

Just who the hell _is_ he?

“Look, we don’t have time for blame games. Will you help me find Ann or not?"

"You’re sure you want her?” Monday raises his eyebrows, still not deigning him with a look. “You had her. That didn't work out so well, did it?"

Another not-answer. As if September hasn’t just lost his final lead to this case, and his friend hadn’t paid the price for this misstep. As if September needs more of Monday’s shitty roundabout not-clues right now.

“No more games, Monday Blue. You say you came to save Mina. But one word from that damn speaker and you turned tail and ran.”

September's gaze hardens, he can’t help himself.

“Tell me who you are to them. Now.”

Monday blinks at him. For a long moment, he’s silent. He saunters to the back of the cell, sitting on the hard cot in the corner, swinging his legs.

“Fine.”

Eyes as cold as cold.

"It's simple, really. Everyone who runs away from the mafia dies. And I suppose they're butthurt that I'm not so easy to kill. Me, running around spilling confidential information to everyone I meet… Especially the odd dapper cop."

Who the hell is — _Oh._

September slowly gets up. "You're…"

The clues Monday seemed to have. The cryptic riddles. The secrecy.

They all fall into place.

Monday Blue, so confident of _'taking care'_ of a trained killer because he was a peer-in-arms,

Her _friend._

"You _worked_ for them?" A harsh laugh. "No. I know you, you're a principled guy. You don't expect me to believe that."

Monday holds September's gaze. "Still want to let me go now, Lieutenant?"

September stares.

 _Monday Blue, part of Tempus._ Keeping Monday here, does that mean September believes him? _Monday Blue who, in another life, might’ve been someone who might’ve poisoned his squadmate._ No, no, Monday needs to be locked away, and interrogated for everything he knows and more.

He can’t even breathe.

_It might’ve been Monday Blue looking through the scope, placing the crosshairs over September’s heart instead of his leg._

"What did you do?"

"Not too much different, really,” Monday says lightly. “Thieving. Vanishing. Capering. Japing —"

"How much of all this is a lie, Monday? You used my force. My best friends. You used me—"

September sucks in a deep, sharp breath. He can’t feel his arms.

"I should put you away. Turn you over to the FBI. Have you _charged_ for everything you’ve done. The DA won’t let you off easy, you’re looking at jail for _life!_ Is that what you want—"

"You think I don't know the law, officer?” The slightest smirk as Monday strides forward once again. “After dancing with it for all of my life? I thought criminals who rat on their friends get shorter sentences.”

“Oh so you just wanted to be let off easy. That’s real heroic.”

“I didn't _have_ to come to you. So, yes, I suppose you could say I wanted to."

September’s voice comes out almost a snarl. "And you _wanted_ to play me like a toy too, huh? Enjoyed seeing my squad whipped in public? Or — _oh,_ wait. The night after the officer’s ball. Messing around with a shitfaced drunk, that must’ve sealed the deal—”

"I'm _trying_ to _make it right."_

It’s a crack in the ice. Monday’s smile is gone, his knuckles white around the bars.

"Can't you _see_ that? Or would you rather I was just some common thief, _using_ you to get the wolves off my back? What did you _think_ would motivate me? Justice?"

There's a note of betrayal in Monday's voice too, though he knows September doesn't deserve it.

_I thought you trusted me._

"I didn't have to come to you," he repeats, softer this time. "I could never have met you — I could be long gone by now. I could have let the wheels keep on turning right under your nose. If you were too _principled_ to heed the words of a criminal, you should have said so."

That shuts September up. He’s pacing now, tense and frustrated, a caged animal.

"The modern Robin Hood, my fucking ass."

He gestures between them.

"This, this is you _using_ me,” he says, gesturing even harder, “You know everything about me. _Everything._ But now you’re a part of _them?_ And I don't even know your fucking name!"

_I did. I trusted you too, but it's hard to keep doing that._

"I'm sorry,” says the man behind the bars. “But it was better that they thought I was using you than thinking you're an active colluder. There are only so few reasons why you're not dead yet."

The thief smiles a little, despite himself.

"Besides, never said I didn't love justice. I just didn't think you'd regard me so highly! It's kind of adorable, honestly."

He doesn’t fail to see September looking at him like he’s looking at a monster.

But heavens be damned if anything ever stopped him from being charming when he wanted to.

"And don't think too much about the name thing, alright? Monday's my favourite."

He’s smiling again. September stares. Then sighs,  sits down heavily. He seems ten years older, suddenly.

“Look. I've been going after Tempus for years. I've seen a little of what they do. But nobody believes me. Hell, it’s a miracle I got a warrant for Circle at all. Ven thinks it’s unrelated, he’d rather suspend me than—” He draws breath. “I want to help you… _Monday,"_ he says, meaningfully, "But my best lead attacked my best interrogator, who is probably _dying_ in the hospital, and now my partner’s from the mafia and it just makes me so… so _fucking…"_

His words trail off into a deep, shaky inhale. Even though September’s looking at the floor, Monday can see the dullness in his maroon eyes.

"Finding out that I put my faith in the wrong people, it’s the shittiest feeling in the world."

"You didn't put your faith in the wrong people. Not in me,” Monday crosses his arms, serious. “I don't know if you realise, but I'm the best chance you ever had. And you're _my_ only chance."

September studies Monday a long while.

“That man — Decade. He’ll continue to track you down.”

"Of course he will. Which is why I was _trying_ to get as far away as possible.” Monday pauses. “But I doubt he was expecting me to get arrested by you of all people. We've got some time to regroup. On both sides."

September doesn’t seem to follow, but that’s okay.

"Can you link him to his crimes?” Monday asks. September remains quiet, which means it’s a hard but unwilling _no._ “What do you need?"

“I don’t know! What do I need to close the case? Names? Transactions? Some… physical evidence? I don't know what I’m looking for,” September smiles emotionlessly. “Unlike you, I haven't had much experience with mafias."

"The fact that you found his name," muses Monday, "gives you a lot of credit.”

"I'm a hardworking cop with good instincts, not a smart cop. We found it by a stroke of luck. We barged into Karika Fishery and Mina found a clue leading us to a safe." It hurts to say the name, and he doesn’t do a good job of hiding it. "A thumbdrive. Enough proof to land a mafia boss in deep shit.”

Monday raises his eyebrows.

“I've hidden it,” says September. Apparently, he has no intention of telling Monday where. "I checked it against what I found before you showed up. All those loose investigations from before. It checks out. — Tempus is here."

Monday nods. “What _are_ Decade’s crimes, according to that thumbdrive?"

"Drug trafficking, manufacturing and delivering. Illegal chemical production and distribution. Weapons distribution. Money laundering. And I'm pretty sure he runs it all using huge shipments, all or nothing. Containers, I suspect. Wouldn't set up a bunch of fisheries otherwise."

“A fair summary,” Monday nods again. "So what's next? Finding the man himself?"

"Yes, then proving he’s the one behind all this. It’s all or nothing."

“You’ve done splendidly,” says Monday, breaking into a slow smile, “considering all you had to go off on was a handful of old women wildly hallucinating. And you cracked the code, too. You’re a lot more resourceful than I expected, Officer.”

September pauses.

“Back in Karika. You laced the fish with drugs.”

“What, I would never!” Monday is the perfect picture of innocence. “I told you, I’m deathly allergic!”

“You didn’t know where the safe was, but you knew the code to it. That was your original plan. You wanted me to get the thumbdrive and the folder.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you’ve gone _well_ off your rocker.”

“You used to work in the mafia. You know where the most important intel’s stashed,” September goes on.

“That _was_ the original plan,” murmurs Monday, “Before Decade got wind of it and moved to take your squad out.”

September pauses.

“Circle Street?” September breathes. “The next batch of intel’s linked to those drug rings.”

“Ann was to kill you or die sending you a warning.” Monday’s face is blank. “Decade loves his melodrama.”

“And then what? What were you expecting?”

“You’re the detective, mind,” says Monday cheerily, “Asking the difficult questions and following up on clues is your job.” Then, he’s quiet for a moment. “But I don’t know either, I’ve never gotten far enough to think that through.”

September stares at him like it’s their first meeting. Something tells him that Monday isn’t lying, not about this — is he clean _now?_ Is Monday exempted from his past crimes now that he’s helping September bring the organisation down? And who’s to say if Monday has other ulterior motives he’s not telling September about?

 _If I show my hand, you’ll never see me again._ — Monday had said that after their cat-and-mouse at the Roselie Market. But it might as well have been said for dramatic effect; September has no way to verify.

Monday’s gaze is, as it always has been, carefully unreadable.

Muffled shouting floats through the door — it sounds like a fight.

September’s on his feet immediately, alert, one hand going for his gun as he heads to the door.

It slams open. Straight into September's face.

And through the doorway charges Paul, uniform torn from a dozen knife cuts, bruised and bleeding from his lip. Single minded vengeance in a gaze unfocused by pain and exhaustion—

He sees Monday and all of that disappears. In a split second he’s unlocking the cell door, charging in, eyes wild, one bloodied fist raised.

Out for blood.

"Whoa!" Monday exclaims brightly, swerving easily out of De Vis' way. "Officer, _officer!_ What's gotten into you?"

Paul's unbalanced by his swing. Monday has seen this sloppy maneuver from countless people.

But Paul isn't the best hand-to-hand fighter in the CPD for nothing.

His leg comes up to follow through with his momentum, catching Monday squarely in the solar plexus.

Monday wheezes.

He rolls over, gulping the air, and lurches across the cell with Paul hot on his heels —

 _"Police brutality,_ officer!—”

“Come down here, you fuck!”

— scrambling up the bars and clinging on for dear life, trying hard to squirm those crucial few inches away and out of Paul's reach,

“Now now, there’s no need to be violent — _agh!_ Officer!! This is _so_ not cool!"

"Afraid of us now, are you? Not so fucking big now that you're locked in here like the _thief you are—”_

September comes up beside him. "Hey, de Vis, snap out of it—"

Paul knocks September's hand off his shoulder and draws his gun.

And finds himself on the ground. His gun skidding over to the far side of the room.

Immobile, with one of his arms hooked behind him —

September’s knee jammed into his back, pinning him down.

Paul slams his fists on the ground. He can’t _take it,_ not anymore.

"That fucker killed Mina!"

Paul's voice splits as he cranes his head up at Monday, who’s still twined around the bars like an octopus.

“He should never have come here! We’d have been better off without him, this fuck doesn’t even know what he’s up against! He’s sending us all to our _fucking graves!”_

“Paul, get a hold of yourself—”

“He’s the whole fucking reason why any of this shit is fucking happening and he's gonna _fucking pay for being alive!_ I’m gonna _fucking kill him—”_

A sudden _burn_ in Paul’s shoulder forces him into a moment of aching clarity:

He’s bleeding, distraught, face down at the feet of a _thief_ while the gate to the holding cell lies open beyond, his direct superior officer restraining him like a common criminal, he’s no fucking better than any of them, he’s no _fucking use —_

Dark spots speckle the concrete beneath him.

"She won't die." Monday's standing in front of him now. “Not any time soon. I can promise you that."

Paul doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything. Just lies there, jaws gritted, shoulders heaving, veins standing out from his clenched fists. His expression tells Monday all he needs to know.

September hauls Paul up, one restraining hand on his arm, and shoves him out. "Alright, dumbass. Let's get you to the infirmary."

Paul sends Monday one last glance. And his eyes widen.

"Wait… Ben? It's you isn’t it? The officer's ball—"

Monday raises his eyebrows _high_ as September just pushes at Paul harder, hurrying him out the room.

 _"Paul,_ seriously, not every kid with pretty blue eyes is Ben. Now _out."_

 

Monday’s still in the cell when September returns.

"Sharp," the thief says, of Paul. "And _ruthless._ You pick good people, Mr Red."

Though recognising Monday wasn't the achievement that it might have been. Monday didn't have his mask on as Jamie, and hasn't put it on since.

He's barefaced in front of September for the first time.

But if September notices Monday's missing persona, he doesn't comment. In a way Monday has always been Monday to him, no matter whose identity he paraded.

"Paul and Mina are good partners," he says. The hard edge has faded from his voice somewhat. "Though maybe they can be less naive."

He holds up a brown file. Empty save a single form — lack of evidence. "Get comfortable for the night. I'll stay here, settle your paperwork by lunchtime tomorrow and you can escape.”

“You sound like you have a plan in mind,” says Monday.

September looks surprised, but nods. "It’s not much, but I think Decade’s got someone working for him in the press. _Someone_ must've seen _something_ — especially about the drug bust in Karika. Why we're not hearing about it?… Think Tempus has someone in the press. I know someone, she'll be able to help."

"Marengo?" Monday's face is carefully blank.

"No. I think Dawn’s just a paid runner. Considering she tricked me last time, then turned around and helped me when the tides changed.” September looks self-conscious. “No, I’m talking about June Cobalt, editor of the Conrad Observer. She’ll know if something's wrong."

"Ooh, your ex, huh? You told me about her." Monday’s excited suddenly. “Alrighty, then! Let's go see her right now."

September gives him a weird look. "No. You're being processed. Those goons are probably all over the city just waiting for you to run free—"

"Chain me up, then. Put me in a box." He grins. "I'd love to see her."

"… we don't have boxes for that." September narrows his eyes. "If you promise to be nice, maybe I could call in a favor, ask her to come by. But she hates this place."

"Don't _worry,_ Septie." He runs his finger along the bars, smiling. "I can't be much less than civil. Every chance is a lead, right? What do we have to lose?"

He knows September can't take his eyes off him. Can’t defy his own logic when it’s used against him. Can’t say no when he’s asking this nicely.

Sure enough, the blank form has suddenly become so very important.

“… I’ll ring her tomorrow morning.”

“Lovely.” Monday smiles a Cheshire cat smile. "And since we’re entertaining requests, any chance I could get a blanket? Room service? A foot sauna?"

"How about a full seven hours of sleep while a grumpy detective makes sure nobody puts a bullet into your head,” says September, not fazed in the least.

"… That sounds lovely." His smile softens. "Thank you kindly, good sir."

September huffs despite himself, trying to pretend he’s not pinking.

“Oh, by the by. Might want to lock the gate, officer,” says Monday as he lowers himself on his cot. “Don’t want any unsavory types popping by to snuff me out, you know.”

Very slowly, September heads over to the cell. Monday’s watching him, bright-blue-eyed. And sure enough, the gate’s still unlocked from when Paul had opened it — he’d been in such a big hurry to rush Paul out of the room before he put the pieces together that he must’ve forgotten to check if it was properly latched.

“Thank you,” hums Monday when it’s done. “Goodnight.”

And it’s all September can do to mumble “Goodnight,” as the thief lies down and shuts both his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DA — District Attorney, one of the highest positions of lawyers present; largely engages only the most high-profile cases.  
> FBI — Federal Bureau of Investigation


	17. Chapter 17

At 0700 sharp, September gets up, heads to the holding cell, and stares. 

It hasn't quite been seven hours, but June’s arriving soon and Monday needs to be awake.

The night had been especially long without coffee, but September’s a veteran of shit sleep cycles and has managed to hover between sleep and awake-ness just enough to make sure nothing’s stirred in the room beyond Monday's deep, even breaths.

Monday’s still curled up on his side. 

He… looks so much younger without the mask. 

Like he can’t be more than in his mid-twenties, early even. He’s got the frame to match, small and slender underneath all those obnoxious disguises. Sometime in the night he’d removed the Officer-Jamie-Clark paddings strapped under his usual black button-up and slacks, leaving them lying in a modest heap beside his cot — man, his covers really went  _ deep — _ and now here he lies, Monday Blue, plain as could possibly be. 

A body that’s lithe and toned, built for nothing else but speed and efficiency, the perfect shape to morph into anyone he pleased… 

But still so  _ soft _ — a strand of black-blue hair flutters off his face with every breath, and no one would ever be able to tell he was a wanted man.

September doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a thief quite as good looking as Monday Blue. So good looking, in fact, that he doesn’t have the heart to call out and wake him.

Not like he has to, as Monday opens one bright blue eye.

"Boo!"

September's expression doesn't change (much), but the surprise of it makes his body tense anyway. He flings a packet of muesli at Monday. "Asshole. I felt bad about feeding you vending machine food but you don’t goddamn deserve it anyway."

Monday catches the muesli easily, though for all his deftness, it takes him two tries to tear it open. 

"Beggars can't be choosers. Neither can thieves! At least, thieves in prison." And muffled, "Doesn’t taste bad, really."

"Real rich coming from the person who steals fancy ham to feed the urchins."

"Did you see me  _ eat _ the ham? No. It was a  _ gift!” _ Monday gestures grandly at nothing in particular, somehow managing to not scatter even a single grain of muesli. “I only give the best gifts."

"Thanks then. For the stained and torn uniforms, and for one broken vest cam. Appreciate it."  September retakes his seat on the bench opposite the cell, studying Monday somewhat warily. "You're in a good mood."

Monday beams. "Guess a good night's sleep does that to you."

September glances at his watch, at the door. He’s still tapping his foot on the ground; Monday had heard it through the night. "Anyway June's coming soon. Still don't see why you have to supervise me though. Not even Ven oversees my investigations."

"Oh  _ god, _ no, I'm not  _ supervising. _ I genuinely want to meet her! You've spoken so highly of her."

"You're planning something."

"Goodness, Septie. What could I possibly do? Sweet talk her into unlocking this cell?”

"You'll help with my questions, right? I'd appreciate you chiming in every so often."

"Playing honorary cop? Sounds fun! So what's the plan, boss?" 

"Ask questions, get answers. There's bound to be a fresh lead somewhere." It’s vague for a reason; September doesn’t quite know what he’s getting into either. He works a knot down his throat. "Man, it's been years since she came in here. She doesn't like this place, did I tell you? Don't know if she'll talk. Maybe this was a mistake—"

"She's a journalist, isn't she? I'm sure she'd love to meet me. An exclusive interview with the master thief himself."

September exhales. "I don't presume you want me introducing you as Monday Blue." 

Monday tilts his head. "Why not? It's already in the press. As it is I'm already kind of a public figure—"

September startles as his phone rings.  

"She's here." He stands. Says to Monday, "Be good."

 

June arrives in one of her trademark blue dresses with a packet of ground coffee in her hands. Somehow, September looks even more nervous than he did five minutes ago when he was leaving the room to fetch her. 

"Temby, when I said I'd like a call, I don't mean at 5AM." 

"Sorry. It was urgent."

She hands her coffee packet to September, who dutifully busies himself at the coffee machine by the door (what a typical cop), leaving June to enter the holding room and discover the thief waiting patiently in the holding cell. 

That's Monday Blue.

_ The _ Monday Blue.

Her jaw tightens. Oblivious, September says, "This ruffian insisted you'd like to have an  _ executive interview _ with him for some reason."

"I see," she replies, voice measured. More as acknowledgement than agreement.

September returns, and they sit on the bench opposite his cell. June never takes her eyes off Monday. It is, after all, the first time she has ever seen him true: Monday as Monday, even if it's Friday morning.

Monday grins widely. Blankly. "Hello!  _ So _ nice to meet you, Ms Cobalt."

"A pleasure,” says June coolly. "Never thought you'd land yourself behind bars; heard you were quite the invincible child."

"Yes, I've been told I don't quite look my age." Monday drapes himself against the bars, acting every bit like the public figure he said he was. "Anything you'd like to ask for your exclusive? Tricks of the trade? Childhood traumas? An aesthetic photograph of me staring wistfully into the distance?” 

They both pause at a snort from behind them. September’s trying to keep his expression straight.

“Something funny, Temby?”

"Uh. Sorry.”

“Well, look who’s stealing the spotlight. Go on, Cobalt. I hear this kind officer needs your help.”

Monday’s straightened up — alert, watchful. All eyes are now on Redmond, who turns to face June.

“Have you noticed anyone going out of their way to publish something? Or to gag something.” He clears his throat, centering himself. “Think there’s someone messing with reports in the press.”

June's gaze is calm as a pond as she replies, "What led you to that conclusion?"

"Just a hunch."

"Your hunches are terrible, Temby."

September shifts his weight awkwardly.

"Look,” she goes on, “I'm sure I'd have noticed if someone was overstepping their boundaries and trying to change something. It won’t happen on my watch."

Monday nods sedately. But September… he just stares at June for a while. He seems confused. "It's not like you to be defensive."

June laughs. "So you're doubting me?"

The detective withdraws into himself like he’s bitten.

"Listen, Temby baby, I think your investigation might have some fruit to bear, but you won't find anything from my side of town. And anything  _ useful _ you uncover certainly doesn't need to be said in front of this thief." She casts a snide look sideways, at Monday. "I hear he thrives off rumours and the tears of the rich."

Monday smirks at June. "Which makes me  _ barely _ any different from the press itself, Ms. Cobalt, we’re practically twins!"

She ignores him. September's still looking at her, though he's not sitting as straight or tall as before.

"So, Temby? Why're you hanging around that fellow?" A nod towards Monday.

"He's... been around. Said he knew things—”

“And yet," notes June, "You’re questioning me and not him?"

"But I'm not— this isn't me questioning you—"

"If you want to accuse  _ my _ company of working with the mafia, Lieutenant, you need more than hearsay to do it."

"June, this is normal investigative procedure—"

"And what have you to show for all your years of hard work — only a gut feeling?”

September visibly works down a knot in his throat. Seeing this, Monday’s gaze flicks to June and stays there. His eyes growing darker by the second.

“Are you doing this just because I owe you a favour?" 

"Junie, no, that's not—"

"Don't bring your case near my company again, Officer."

She gets up to leave, but September stands too, blocking her way. They size each other up.

June exhales slowly. "You're keeping me here?"

"For the record, those couple times you asked to see my case files, I got into so much trouble." 

Something’s settled in September’s gaze. He straightens himself up, folding his arms. "We're sticking to protocol, June. That's that. I'll need you to go through story drafts. Column drafts. Your interns’ work. See if someone’s been trying to push back publication since Pewter Mall—"

"Redmond," she says with exasperation. "Our records don't go so far back."

"Then see if anyone tried to run a story on Circle Street." September says, as calm as he can, which isn’t very. "Police conducting an unnamed operation. Interns love that stuff, right?"

June rubs her temples.  _ "Fine. _ But I handle the originals. Some of them were scrapped at executive request. Strictly confidential."

A pause. "Junie. The CPD needs to see the files. I'm investigating a  _ whiteout. _ An independent party needs to be on this case, and you either get me or one of the other detectives on the squad. They aren’t going to be so patient with you.”

A long, pained silence.

Eventually, June breaks eye contact. "I still think you're misguided. There hasn't been anyone acting out of line since I took over. But fine. I’ll speak to my boss and see what I can do.”

"Thank you," says September.

“Now if you excuse me, Temby, I need to go back to work. You’ve given me a lot to work on and my deadlines haven’t exactly been forgiving.”

June turns to leave, and this time, September has no more reason to stop her —  

_ "Bye, mom! See you next weekend!" _

All eyes turn to Monday, sitting on his cot with no real expression to speak of. He had clearly been the one to speak, though in a voice not quite his, in a way that was eerily familiar.

Gruff, deliberately edgy, an errant boy cast out into the alleys.

Damningly familiar.

September’s at the door in an instant, locking it tight.

June hasn’t moved a muscle. She’s just looking distantly through him. September looks like he wants to say a million things at once, but eventually just settles for a beseeching  _ "June." _

June says, "Surely you aren't surprised."

"June— How long have you—  _ why?" _

"Why does a scruffy wild child change anything, Temby? For all you know he might be pulling another fast one on you —"

"Don't call me Temby again."

September steps closer. "I thought you were a good person. Turns out you don’t  _ care _ if you’re defending a mafia that runs a drug ring, and a weapon ring, and  _ ruins people's lives!" _

June cracks a small smile at that.

"You lied to me for — How long has it been, June. I thought you loved me enough to treat me like a decent human being."

"I do love you," she says (though her voice makes Monday’s lip curl.) "Twisted people like me are drawn to genuine souls like yours."

September exhales hard. "You knew I was training to become a detective and you still—"

Cuts himself off.

June hums. "That's right. I tried to protect you. Decade wanted me to use you. And unlike Monday, I stuck my neck out to set you free. Decade was  _ irate _ when he found out we broke up."

"Don't bring Monday into this," growls September.

"Why not?" A sidelong glance at the thief behind the bars. “Did you know he works with us too? He’s not as high-and-mighty as he seems to believe he is.”

“This isn’t about him—”

“You sound upset, Redmond, did it come as a shock to you, finding out who he was? Of course it did, you always tried to believe the best in people. Did you think I actually cared about what the CPD does? I was just doing my job. And I imagine your dear Monday Blue’s doing exactly the same.”

September growls, "I said. Leave. Him.  _ Out of it." _

“Oh, he’s a real work of art, you know. Your dear, sweet, clever,  _ righteous _ Monday Blue. You must think I'm scum,” June says with a smile, “But you must ask  _ him, _ the big fish. Go on, Temby. Ask him. Ask him why everyone halfway close to Tempus knows his many names."

September hesitates, but his eyes slide over to the holding cell, where Monday’s face betrays nothing.

"You never even  _ told _ this poor officer? Blue, how could you. You  _ know _ September’s trying  _ so hard _ for you. You knew he thought you a renegade, and you led him on.” June lets out a little laugh. “Well, what do you know, we  _ are _ practically twins."

Monday doesn’t humour her with a response. He only looks at September. No invitation in his eyes, but no resistance either.

Redmond is free to ask what he wishes.

"What else," says September, "have you been hiding from me?"

"Cop out," says June.

"I told you," replies Monday plainly. "I'm the best chance you got. There's a reason for that."

September takes three even breaths, then,

reaches out for June's hand.

They lock gazes, icy blue meeting fevered red. And a cuff clicks shut around June's wrist.

"Redmond," says June, shock going across her face.

"June Cobalt, you are under arrest for aiding and abetting an illegal organisation, obstruction of justice, and falsifying official releases of information."

"Temby, you can't—"

"You have the right to remain silent." September doesn't meet her eyes. Only Monday can see how the exhaustion eats away at his bones. "You have the right to an attorney—"

They’re interrupted by slam of a fist against the holding room door. 

"FBI,” comes a surly voice from the other side, “Open up."

September pauses, but doesn't let go of June's hand. He’s hesitating. He's never had to deal with this before.

"Special Agent Doberman, FBI. Open the door or we will use force."

September frowns. What’s the FBI here for? 

On the other side of the door is a task force, easily ten agents, all combat-trained and ready. Agent Doberman stands one head over September, packed with many more pounds of muscle. Holds out his badge. "Step aside. We’ve received reports of a link to the mafia."

September opens his mouth to protest, but then he sees Ven amidst the sea of blue.

_ Ven, _ oh thank god. He must’ve managed to bring the feds here, and he’ll be able to get their help to take down Tempus.

September points. "Her. June Cobalt. She’s working with—"

Doberman’s eyes flick to her, then back to September. "You the officer in charge of the case? Our sources tell us blue hair, blue eyes."

They’re not here for June. They’re here for _ Monday? _

“Wait, you’ve got the wrong guy—”

Another agent steps in front of September before he can approach.

“Step back, officer.” Her uniform reads  _ Y. Collie _ and she looks like she could bench press him for a warmup. “Or we will bring you in for aiding and abetting.”

Doberman gestures. His agents file into the room. “He’s wanted on multiple counts of bank robberies, firearms possession, fraud, and involvement in serious and organised crime.” 

“I’m still processing him! I arrested him for—”

“Petty theft. We are aware,” Doberman says stiffly, “but that’s not necessary. We’re taking over his case.”

“But—”

“Stand down, officer. This is your last warning.”

September forces himself to stay silent. 

“Who knew a petty thief would be so much trouble," Ven comments wryly and loudly, striding towards Redmond and muttering in his ear as the blues move towards the cell. "I know you wanted this bust, Redmond, I tried to stop them. But it's out of my hands now.”

— There's only blue on blue on blue, blue every fucking where and no Cobalt to be seen. —

Monday, to his credit, does a passable job at looking shocked. He probably is shocked to an extent.

But September, who's been in Monday's view for the past seven hours, recognises how something drains from his eyes.

_ This wasn't the plan… again. _


	18. Chapter 18

There's only blue in the holding room, blue every fucking where and the wrong Blue behind bars. 

The cuffs in September’s hands dangle open and empty, no Cobalt to be seen. Monday’s staring around with the light fading from his eyes, Ven’s standing there with his trademark can’t-be-helped grimace plastered across his face and September — goddammit, he can’t just sit by and let this happen. He never has.

"Wait, Doberman.” September grabs the hulking FBI agent’s shoulder. “I'm not done processing him, I have to—"

"Your Chief said he was brought in for theft. Couple months’ jail is gonna be peanuts compared to the time he's put away for."

Doberman brushes his hand off like a fly, but September steps in front of the gate. Rather unwisely, given the way Ven jerks his arm up to stop him but puts it down immediately, knowing it won’t be any use. 

But whatever, brute force works sometimes.

"Step aside, officer," says Doberman. "Or we will have you brought in and investigated for misconduct—"

"No,” September shoots back immediately, “You can't."

A direct opposition to orders from the feds? This is unheard of, even from Redmond. Doberman stares and waits. As does the rest of his squad, standing around him.

"I'm," September sucks in a breath. "I'm investigating him for culpable homicide, identity theft and narcotics violations. We're about to land a bust with the largest coke ring in the district. We have a contact, a supplier. But he has to go alone —"

"We can investigate Mr Blue’s civil crimes another day, Officer…" Doberman reads the nametag. "Redmond."

"I've got circumstantial evidence corroborated by two sources. More if the bust goes well—” 

“Circumstantial evidence? We have a bunch of that too,” says Agent Akita to Doberman’s right, clearly at the edge of her patience. “Don’t see why you’re so insistent on staying with him, Detective Redmond. Unless you’re in cahoots?”

Doberman sends Akita a look, but she’s saying what everyone’s thinking. 

“Detective,” says Doberman, calmly, “Step aside. Now.”

September squares his shoulders and looks  _ up _ at Doberman best as he can. “We have a contact. A high-ranking official in the mafia.”

“You can’t be serious,” says Akita.

“I am,” replies September, utterly and deathly grave. “I’ve been on the trail for years. This is the closest I’ll ever—”

“He’s lying,” cuts in one Agent Kuvasz gruffly.

“Tempus,” says September loudly. 

And jackpot. That gets Doberman’s attention. He perks up silently. 

_ Shit. September has no clue what the threads are, he hasn’t had enough time to talk it through with— _

“This thief,” he says, tilting his head towards the bars, “He… he knows their people. He’ll talk if we give him amnesty. Or put him in witness protection or something, keep him safe.”

“And you  _ trust _ him?” asks Agent Shepherd.

“He…” September resists the urge to glance behind him. “He said he worked with them. And so far his intel checks out. One major drug bust. We seized enough crack to jail them for decades.”

September’s scrambling so fucking hard, but if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s bait superiors with the best-case scenario. 

He just hopes against all hope that Monday will play along and not rat him out.

“He has this plan. It’s, he wants to — The plan’s complicated, but he’ll help us take down Tempus from the inside. We’ll get them before they know what’s coming.”

The agents standing before him exchange glances. Doberman’s gaze remains steely.

"But.” September says. Then pauses. It’s only partly for effect, because this is way too much too fast  _ —  _ “If you guys take the case and go barging in, we'll lose  _ months _ of work.”

Doberman stays silent. Behind him, another agent shakes his head. “So we’re expected to roll over and belly up for you?” His worn name tag reads  _ J. P. Bernard. _ “You’re not in charge of this case any more, detective, he’s wanted for federal crimes now—”

“We do this my way or the trail goes cold, and Monday dies."

Silence. 

"Monday dies," repeats Doberman with unmasked incredulity.

"They’ve already killed three. They nearly killed him  _ and _ another high-ranking agent. I only managed to save Monday." September says. He deliberately turns his gaze to the floor. God, he can practically  _ feel  _ the corner of Monday’s mouth twitching upwards with every word. "I might lose one of my people to them. I know these scumbags. They'll pick you off like flies, but they won't kill me. And they definitely won’t kill Monday."

"Redmond, you can't be serious," hisses Ven at his side. "You haven't cleared any of this with me, for all I know you could be planning a suicide mission—"

"You thought I shot myself in the foot, sir," September cuts in. "With my own gun. When I have a phobia of seeing myself bleed. It’s in my medical records," September adds, for the sake of the feds, “I’m not lying.”

Doberman and the others turn disbelieving glares on Ven, while the chief’s own on September is chilly. "Stooping to  _ ad hominem, _ I see. So what exactly does your thief have to offer?"

"A hideout," pipes up Monday.

They turn to the thief.

"I believe your officer has enough information for a warrant," he continues, blue eyes wide and earnest. "Does Calen Holdings ring any bells?"

Doberman shakes his head no and the rest follow suit.

“Well it should ring  _ many _ bells. One more reason why we're better equipped to see the bottom of this,” says September, although it’s the first time he’s hearing this particular bell go and he has no idea what the  _ fuck is happening,  _ but it seems to be working so there’s no choice but to fucking ham it up — “You guys are months behind and if we’re going to raid the hideout there’s no way I can brief you all in time. I  _ need _ to stay on this case."

And then he waits, with bated breath. Doberman scans Monday up and down like he’s searching for a lie. Then Ven. And finally, September.

Eventually, Doberman nods.

"Fine,” he says, “But the informant stays with us at all times.”

_ Informant.  _ The word’s a relief. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll talk to the DA, make sure it’s all green with my commanding officer. When we come back it’ll be time for the sting.”

With a wave of his hand and a sharp look at the chief —  _ I expect results from your detective, Pemberton  _ — Doberman leads the agents out of the holding room.

"In the meantime," September can’t resist calling out after them, "Look into June Cobalt for me, she’s the real one you should be going after."

“Noted,” replies Doberman without turning. “We’ll do the follow up.”

 

Once the door clicks shut September sags against the bars of the holding cell. He lets out a shaky exhale like he’s about to die.

Ven, however, is staring at September like he's behind the bars instead of leaning on them.

"Redmond," he intones, carefully. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Keeping my hands on this case," replies September, straightening himself coolly. "What's it look like?"

Ven doesn’t comment about the detective’s posture, because it’s completely like Redmond to forget his commanding officer’s still here.

"Greed, Redmond. Greed masquerading as ambition. Your two pet cases dovetailing right into one, and plucked right out of your hands. I can't blame you for grasping at straws like you did... but as your superior, I must." 

He's emotionless and firm. 

"I am coming on this search.” 

September, on the other hand, is gradually and surely souring.

"Ven — Do you  _ have _ to? The FBI is already overseeing the case and that's already way too many—"

"All the more reason I should be there. Better to have at least one pair of eyes that's  _ used _ to you." 

Ven's expression is weary, even as he waits for September to finish his characteristic sulking. 

"It's not always obvious, Redmond, but I do look out for you."

"Yeah yeah, I got it," sighs September. But he knows better, he’s always known better. "If you come though, you have to trust me. No second guessing. No nagging. And  _ no sass _ if something doesn't go according to plan."

“I will strive to do that,” says Ven, “within reasonable limits.”

September glowers at the ground for a while more. Then he ventures, hesitantly, "Hey, Ven, is there — is there any news on Mina? And Paul?"

"Recovering, both of them,” says Ven. The edge is gone from his voice. “I'll inform de Vis about the sting soon."

Ven's eyes drift towards the thief in the cell. Monday raises his hand in enthusiastic greeting, to which the chief responds with a laboured sigh. 

"So he just  _ showed up? _ Ripe for the picking?"

"He came to warn us about the poison, but it was a bit too late for that. At least I managed to arrest him before he disappeared. Tempus has eyes on him. Like I said, maybe we should put him in witness protection.”

Ven snorts. "A high-security prison should be protection enough. There's only so much a plea bargain can do."

They both stare at Monday for a few moments. Finally, Ven gives September a long, meaningful look. 

"Turn him in,” he says curtly, and leaves.

 

"Quite the charmer, isn't he?" Monday smirks when they’re alone.

"Yes, the thorn in my ass." September heaves another relieved sigh. "Can't believe they bought it. I’m never lying again.”

Monday’s eyes go wide, his grin going wider still. "You've never lied before? Totally couldn't tell at  _ all." _

“Of course I have, what do you take me for, some goody-two-shoes?” September sits on the floor, head in his hands. “Shit. Hopefully they can’t cross-check what I’m saying, or we’re dead meat.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there!” says Monday cheerfully. “Still. Proud of you, Septie.”

When Monday gets no reply, he leans against the far wall with a huff. 

"I see we're going on a field trip."

"Oh yeah, it’ll be fun," September deadpans at the floor. "Just you, me, and Ven."

"And about ten, twenty other FBI agents. Intimate!" 

Monday’s smile drops. September hears it before he sees it.

"You wanted to know what I've been hiding from you."

“About the warehouse?” 

“I said hideout, darling, not warehouse.”

Despite himself, September can’t help looking up in surprise. “It’s  _ your _ hideout.”

"Oh, please, I've outgrown those, I'm a couchsurfer now! You know Airbnb?  _ No _ background checks whatsoever. Imagine that!” Monday smiles loosely, then sobers. “It's just an old hideout, sort of. More business than anything… I suspect you'll find your missing puzzle piece in there."

He’s playing it down. He doesn’t completely succeed.

“But sure, about the hideout, about what I did… about anything. June said you could ask, and I won’t stop you.”

September exhales slowly, returning his gaze to the floor. 

“The plan was to crack the case without getting too  _ intimate _ about anything,” he says, muted, “We’ll raid Calen Holdings, and see what to do from there.”

Monday almost looks disappointed. "Septie, no need to show a thief any courtesies. Unless…” He smirks. “You'd prefer to keep investigating? Figure out the truth about the mysterious phantom thief on your own. You  _ want _ to know, Mr Competitive, you just don't want me to  _ tell _ you.”

It’s light, the way he’s always sounded, but it’s met with none of September’s deadpan amusement or bristling. 

“This isn’t a game, Monday,” He eventually says, quietly, vacantly. "I won’t make you tell anything I don’t need to solve the case. That’s all.”

He’s still mad. Or disappointed. Or both. It’s obvious. But that doesn’t stop Monday from meeting his gaze, clear and sincere and true. 

“Thank you,” he says, because he  _ is _ grateful for Redmond’s help, and there really isn’t anything else to say.

September looks away first, moving to get comfortable on a not-so-comfortable chair beside the holding cell. Monday doesn’t miss the dark rings under his eyes, the way two days’ lack of sleep pulls at him wrong, the way the gravity of it all weighs him down and doesn’t let go. As one is likely to be after seeing his squad fall apart and nearly having his case wrenched clean from his grasp.

“You’re tired,” Monday says. 

The detective folds his arms and lets his eyes slide closed.

Monday leans against the wall. September’s watched him for the entire night, the least he can do is take his turn being a cop until Doberman comes back.

“Sleep tight, Septie.”

 

"Officer Redmond." 

September jerks awake mid-exhale. Agent Doberman’s in the door, holding a stack of papers, looking mildly disapproving but also empathetic in that way police officers are after spending weeks on a case.

September glances at Monday, but Monday’s just lounging on his cot smiling as serene as can be — what? he wanted to be a cop, not an  _ alarm clock, _ and besides Doberman wasn’t any level of shady. September’s fault for sleeping on the job. 

September clears his throat. "Doberman. How can I help?"

"Good news.” The agent sounds pleased. “The DA's all over Mr. Blue's case. Agreed to drop his charges if something good comes out of the search and sting. Unfortunately, we’ve only got forty-eight hours to prove that Mr Blue's warehouse isn't just some crack story. I’m deploying the task force to search the place today..."

"Not a warehouse. A hideout," says September, his voice still syrupy. Doberman rolls his eyes, handing over the sheath of papers. The detective peers at it ineffectually.

"Anyway, you'll be responsible for Mr. Blue at all times. I watched some of his theft footage." Doberman gives a vague nod to the holding cell and a smirk is definitely playing on his lips. "I recommend you cuff him to you."

Monday’s wolf whistle is acknowledged by no one.

"Gear up. Departure in twenty minutes."

And Doberman's gone, presumably to brief Ven. 

_ "Doberman, _ huh?” Monday says blithely as the door clicks shut. “With a name like that, and a  _ chest _ like that… did you see little pink paw pads between his fingers?"

September places the documents on the table, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "You rather be cuffed to a big dog?" 

"Some people are into that, you know." 

"Tell that to someone who doesn’t work with the K9 unit." September holds up two pairs of cuffs. "Take your pick. Shiny new or tried and tested?"

They look exactly the same. Monday smiles. "How about down and dirty?"

September stares. Then pulls out a third cuff from his belt. “Fine with me.”

“Kinda weird, isn’t it, officer?” smiles Monday wider, as September makes his way over to the cell. “Soon you’ll have the case nailed shut and we’ll be on our merry ways.”

September swings the door open. “Back to terrorizing the rich and stealing hams again? Or do you wanna get put in witness protection?” 

“What, witness protection? But then I’ll never see you again!” Monday says in mock dismay. Then he goes on, more quietly, “We’ll see. I never really thought about what happens after."

They stare at each other for a moment, Monday swinging his legs carelessly from the cot, September hesitating in the doorway.

“It’s not your fault,” Monday begins, and September startles. “Of course you were watched by Tempus from places you don’t expect. That’s what a mafia’s supposed to be  _ good _ at, and you had no way of knowing.”

That makes September soften, at last.

“Sucks to know I'd been feeding the mafia tips all along. Sabotaging your case. Putting my teammates in danger.I'm still kinda mad at you for hiding things from me," he scolds. Then goes back to being bitter. "I dunno. I don’t like feeling this way.” 

“You’re feeling confused, then.” Monday suggests, looking thoughtful. "You like things simple. Uncomplicated."

"Now you’re making me sound like a dumbass." He slowly looks up from the floor. "…  Uncomplicated isn't bad, right?"

"No, not at all." This time, Monday’s smile is wistful. "Though it perhaps begs the question of why you became a cop, since the job’s all about dealing with complications."

September shrugs. "I became a cop because I watched  _ The Untouchables _ with my dad when I was little. I had no idea what was happening, but the detectives seemed so awesome and cool. Anyway being a cop is easy. Protect civilians, arrest thieves, take down the mafia — that’s just three things. Easy."

By the end of his long spiel, Monday’s brimming with laughter. "That's so  _ pure. _ I shouldn't have expected anything less." 

The faintest hint of a smile’s playing on September’s lips, but he’s doing a good job of quashing it. “Alright. Come over and give me your hand, thief."

Monday slides off the cot and stands a distance away from the door. He almost looks wary.

Then he walks forward and puts his hand right in September's.

The cop frowns, but his ears are undeniably red. He locks the cuff on Monday's wrist and the other on his own. "Now you're just toying with me."

"Thought it was protocol, officer, honest!" Monday looks down, then smiles. "You're not letting go."

September  _ tenses,  _ then drops Monday's hand, not that it can fall far. He turns and tugs Monday out, but there's no mistaking that the crimson dusting in his ears has spread to his cheeks now.

And Monday? He can't help but stifle a giggle as he's dragged out of the cell — after a while he just lets himself laugh. 

Why not, really? Let the precinct think he's mad.

He certainly is, after all, at least a little.

For putting his trust in September Redmond.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K9 unit — 'canine' unit, made of dogs specifically trained to support police and law-enforcement operations.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: This arc of the story was planned, written, and completed last year — any relation to real life events are purely coincidental. That being said, the events of the real world have still unfolded as such manner — click [ here](http://time.com/money/5314428/how-to-help-immigrant-children-parents-border/) to learn more about the issues that this arc may touch on, and to see a list of organisations you can support to make a change. (We purposefully kept this PSA spoiler free, but the issues are very much real and present!)

39 Syracuse Avenue.

A perfectly normal terrace house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Doberman's task force is ready and waiting at the entrance steps when September and Monday get out of the car. The thief is securely cuffed to the detective, and even if he looks like the happiest trussed-up thief to ever be trussed-up. A good scene to behold. The agent gives an approving nod.

"Officer Redmond. Mr. Blue. Is there anything we must know before we enter?"

"There's a biometric lock on both doors," Mr. Blue says brightly. "A few secret passageways too, but they probably caved those in long ago. Go ahead and kick the door down."

Officer Redmond balks — _just like that?_ — but Doberman simply nods and barks out commands to the team. Apparently bashing in by force is the best option after all, as a hacker might compromise the bureau's own cybersecurity. At least, that’s what the agent explains as the doors buckle and fall under a heavy battering ram.

 _Just like that,_  they’re in.

It seems a little too easy.

"Go ahead, officers," Monday says. His voice is muted and strange. "Do your thing."

The agents filter into the house, but September lingers in the threshold with Monday by his side, nervous.

39 Syracuse Avenue is a perfectly normal terrace house at the end of the cul-de-sac, and its insides look perfectly normal too — a dusty mat at the front entrance; footwear of various shapes and sizes on the sagging shoe racks. Specks of dust and lint float through the living room, dimly lit by sunlight bleeding through the lace-curtained windows, scattering on beige sofas and yellowing doilies next to a cold, cobblestone fireplace.

The decor looks almost ‘80s. How long has this place been abandoned, really?

September casts a sidelong glance at Monday, who’s staring at everything rather blankly.

"Bad memories?"

"Yeah." Monday exhales carefully. His voice is firm when he says, “Keep a sharp eye, Septie. All this is here because he wants me to see it.”

And he gently tugs September forward.

 

The first few rooms have nothing out of place about them, apart from the fact that the officers leave footprints in the layers of dust on the floor. A dining room, a dining table. A quaint little kitchen, with plastic letters scattered all over the fridge door.

A few of them appear to be arranged in a kind of timetable.

Y E S T E R D A Y

T O D A Y

and T O M —

the last is scrambled up with numbers, letters, symbols, all stray pieces for sure. It’s impossible to tell what’s what. The little notepads stuck up between each word are torn bare to their cardboard backings too.

“Yesterday,” September says breathlessly as he wanders to the fridge. “He was here? Yesterday, Today and…”

He moves his fingers along the letters.

"Monday's missing,” he jokes softly, “With another N, you'd fit right on there."

Monday tries to laugh but doesn't quite succeed. “Of course. Never would’ve seen that without you, Septie, bless your heart. Let’s try the other rooms, shall we?”

There are three bedrooms that seem properly furnished. In one, a soft grey quilt lies across its bed, with pillows of coffee-brown and marshmallow-white, neatly tidied. Nothing else in it. In another, the blanket is as yellow as daylight. Similarly tidied.

And there's another with the door ajar, almost closed. September places his hand flat against the door, then pushes it open, slowly, almost as if afraid of what he'll see.

The room is awash with blue.

Morning light filters through sapphire curtains. A bed with deep navy sheets and scattered galaxies. Luminous, pale blue stars sprinkled on the walls and ceiling… though a few have fallen to the floor, bleached beyond all color.

Of the three bedrooms, this is the only one that truly feels _abandoned,_ rather than vacated. The closet is still full of clothes, and its door hangs slightly ajar with a trouser leg sticking out. The wooden chair isn't quite pushed snug under its desk. And the window beyond the curtain is wide open, leaving the room vulnerable to the wind, to the rain that have blown in over months, or years; the hardwood floor a patchwork of dried leaves and dark stains.

There’s only one person in the world this room could possibly belong to — and if Monday Blue's expression was strange before, it is now downright struggling.

September takes it all in with bated breath. No doubt this is Monday's history, all condensed into one room.  But when he sees his companion’s face, he immediately tightens a hand around his — it’s first-response mode, and he even forgets to blush at all.

"Hey. It's fine. You're safe, okay? Nothing's going to happen to you here."

"No, I…"

Monday’s staring into a corner of the room, next to the bed —

"That wasn't there before."

— at a picture frame on a side table. September heads over and inspects it without picking it up. He’s no expert, but the photo inside seems a little newer than the rest of the room.

In the photo, there are three children in a row — one with wide, silver eyes and silky dark hair worn long around the ears; one with sunshine hair and a smile that could eclipse stars.

And the shortest of them all, with hair so black it looked blue in the light, sporting a brazen grin as he sneaks bunny ears behind the others’ heads, laughing eyes shining a bright blue.

September only recognises two of the children.

Yesterday and Monday.

And Monday — he looks happy here.

"So someone left it here to be found. Knew you would come back." A pause. "I'm guessing this man."

He points — behind the three children, a ways back but not too far, stands a man with a golden gaze and hair that could've been sunshine blonde once, though now he seemed more faded than anything. Like a favorite photograph. There’s the slightest hint of a smile in his eyes.

"Who is that, Monday?"

Monday's as casual as possible when he says — "That's my dad."

Then he grabs the picture frame and begins to pick it apart.

"Let's make sure there's no bombs or poison needles in here, shall we?"

"Your… dad?" September's struggling. "Your… _dad?"_

"Not biological, obviously." Monday’s yanking out the glass front of the frame, examining it from all sides. "I mean, look at him. I could never hope to have that jawline."

"True, you've got a slighter build — wait, that's _not_ the point, you mean your 'dad' would try to kill you with a photo frame? Of your _family?_ I… assume it's your family…”

Monday doesn’t reply, but from the way Monday takes apart the photo frame with clinical efficiency, like he's done this a hundred times before — clearly, certain dads would.

"The girl looks like him," September continues rather dumbly. "I'm guessing he adopted you? And adopted Yesterday?"

"Pretty much."

Monday's satisfied with his dissection of the photo frame, and flings its remains into the corner of the room — in such a small gesture, it's possibly the most aggression that September's ever seen out of him.

"So, Septie. What do you think of this place?"

September tries to be cheerful, but it’s clear he’s rattled. "… Not the worst I've seen. It’s a nice room. Bigger than mine, when I was a kid.…"

He heads over to the cabinet, more looking for any last clues than examining Monday's clothes.

“You left this all behind,” he says, as he emerges with a little stuffed toy dog. Navy speckled starry silver. "Why?"

Monday takes the toy dog from September, turning it over in his hand. The dog smiles with blank, beady eyes and a lolling tongue."Septie, darling, how old do you think I am?"

"Couple years younger than me?"

“I’m a _grownup._ Why would I bring my stuffed toys with me when I moved out?"

"No, I mean…you left a pretty good life behind.” September ruffles the dog’s fur, even as he notices that Monday holds the dog closer than he’d like to admit. "A nice family, nice things. Was running away really worth it?"

"Mm, your ex said the same thing. Think about it, Septie. I didn't bring you here to show you how wealthy and homely the mafia is.”

Monday’s eyes are dark.

“You've seen the back rooms. What do you think happened here?"

September casts a glance out the door, at the other rooms.

They exit the blue room and walk over. Doberman’s there too, and as they nudge past each other in the corridor, the agent gives Monday just the faintest look — September recognises it immediately, it’s one cops reserve for the scum of all scum.

_What happened here?_

September’s indeed walked past the back rooms already, but it isn’t until Monday points them out that he realises how… strange they are.

Firstly there are a lot of them. All of them strange, small rooms.

And the beds disappear, devolving into mattresses of various thicknesses.

Crammed into every corner. Worn, old and soiled.

A few stuffed toys here and there. Dilapidated ones.

Bare walls, barred windows, bad floorboards.

Enough room for twenty kids or more.

"Monday?" His voice is so soft he's barely heard. "H… How long has this been going on?"

"For as long as I can remember."

Monday’s voice is soft too. He doesn't look at September and he didn’t look at Doberman, or any of the FBI agents on the way here with their faces twisted in horror and condemnation. Instead, he keeps his gaze resolutely on the rooms before him. Every crack in the wall. Every stained mattress.

He won't let himself look away.

September turns to Monday, expression unreadable. "Monday—"

 

Shouts echo down the hall.

 

Immediately on high alert, September swings the door shut and pulls Monday into a corner, away from immediate harm.

Into his radio, "Doberman? What's going on?"

_"Twenty unidentified attackers, heavily armed. Stay inside. We'll handle it. Get Monday—"_

Static. And then nothing.

"Doberman? Doberman!"

"Comms down," yells one of the agents nearby. "Follow emergency protocol. Pemberton will be waiting for you at the entrance. Get the informant to safety—" He falls over, a hole in his skull.

_They're here._

September grabs Monday's wrist. Pushes the key into the hole. "We'll break off at the last moment. Being cuffed together is a shit idea, if one of us goes down so does the other." Pops open the cuffs. "Go with Ven. I trust him. But run when you can. Don't go back to the station. The mole _will_ kill you."

Takes a moment to hold Monday's shoulders firmly, even as he struggles to place his thoughts, staring into the thief’s blue eyes and feeling him ever so slightly trembling —

"Whatever's going on here, we'll fix it. I promise."

Monday hesitates, then nods. September nods in turn, heart racing, ears pounding — and then pulls away.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

Monday stares at the door. Then —

"Septie, I —"

— he swallows his words as the door bangs open and they run.

September's at the forefront, gun out, eye down the barrel. Mina has her words and Paul his fists — September's best with a gun. He takes out the first three, and another one with a ricocheted bullet.

He didn't realise there were so many rooms. So many places to hide behind. Another two down. (Twenty was a gross underestimation.)

Lays down some covering fire. A bullet grazes his shoulder and he swears. Another blind round towards his attackers.

The sound of a trigger clicking. Someone's gun is empty, the front door's in sight. It's now or never.

_"Monday! Go!"_

And Monday has no time to think of justice, of penance, of deserving anything — his instincts are tuned for survival. When September shouts _go_ he bolts for the door and he's there in a second, swift as always, never let it be said that Monday was slow on his last escape —

But as the chilly morning air scrapes his face, he's abruptly brought to a halt by an arm slamming into his neck.

When Redmond opens the door, he finds Ven with a gun pressed to Monday's head.

The safety’s down, Monday’s round-eyed and frozen, and Ven just looks miserable.

The light drains from September's eyes. And this time, unlike when he learned about what June had done, or heard what Monday did, the rage that replaces the dying light is one that Monday has never seen.

All it takes is a split second, and the gun's back up. Ready to sink a bullet between Ven's eyes.

“I’m sorry, Redmond,” says the chief, fruitlessly. “Everywhere you turn, there’s an enemy.”

September's eyes are dark, like blood. It's everything that's needed to be said.

Monday's breathing as fast as a mouse. It's not often you see an escape artist catch their breath — perhaps he's scared not just of the muzzle to his temple, but of the cop in front of him with all his fury.

"I won’t blame you," Ven continues. "Kill me if you must."

"I didn't know," chokes Monday, he’s breathing faster than he can talk. "I sw— I swear to god I didn't know."

Pemberton's men take their places around the trio silently, guns all pointed at the last detective. It doesn't take a fool to recognise the man's fraying concentration, the shaky adrenaline and the wild spark of bad judgement and bad decisions. September's an easy kill. But they're all waiting, as if obeying a calm _Not yet._

It's unclear if September's even heard a word from Ven. His eyes flick briefly between Ven and the gun against Monday's head.

But finally, _finally,_ some of that bloodlust fades.

And it's just September — tired, sleep deprived, let down one too many times, lowering his gun to the floor. Lowering himself on his knees, and then putting his hands behind his head.

Smart detective. He knows he can't make the shot.

Can't make it out alive.

"Don't shoot him," says September, voice flat. He's directing his plea at Ven, even as his eyes are trained on the floor.

Monday's eyes go wide — he all but stops breathing. Even when Ven releases his chokehold, you can't hear him gasp for air.

And Ven… it's almost as though he was hoping Redmond would take the shot. There's nothing much else to him, besides that same, heavy sadness. He has a job to do, clearly. Just as he always has.

"Come, both of you."

There's a van waiting for them, among many other vehicles. Ven guides Monday along as one of his men nudges Redmond off the ground with the tip of a gun.

It is perhaps for the best that Redmond doesn't see Monday's face.

"You know your father won't harm you," Ven mutters as he walks. "He values you far too much."

Monday sucks in a breath through clenched teeth.

Ven shows the thief into the back of the waiting vehicle. His men relieve September of his vest and weapons, before he’s pushed in too, and the doors are locked from the outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://i.imgur.com/HgNVJwD.jpg)  
>  Art by the talented Rattetytat.


	20. Chapter 20

Darkness. A low clunk, the rumble of an engine, and the van leaves for Tempus.

September’s eyes slowly, painstakingly, get used to the scant light striping in through the tiny barred windows. Immediately he shuffles around the van, feeling along the walls for some kind of weakness, but this is a police vehicle for transporting perps and he knows damn well there’s no getting out. 

He sits down heavily on one of the benches, doubles over on his knees and presses the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

— god fucking damn you Ven, god, god  _ fuck _ you Ven — 

As the pounding in his ears subsides, he becomes aware of soft gasping coming from the other side of the van, furthest from the light.

From Monday. For once, he’s speechless and still. Sitting against the furthermost edge of the bench, head tilted to the floor, hands splayed flat, fingers gripping the edge of the seat so hard they’re white — 

— breathing so quickly, like he can’t stop.

September recognises these signs. He’s only seen them hundreds of times; on patrols, on disaster support, during emergencies — panic attacks are part of the job.

He eases over and says, "Hey. Monday."

No response. Monday only curls in on himself, like he’s trying to disappear.

September draws closer, gently reaching out for his hand. 

"Focus on my voice. Focus on me. Monday —"

— and Monday  _ jerks _ back. It’s the smallest of movements, but there’s so much coiled in his limbs, in every fibre of him, it’s like he’s retreating from a killer —

his eyes, the most transparent they’ve ever been, are electric with fear. 

September withdraws, startled. Unsure what to think. 

Monday looks away; he seems to feel bad about his reaction. 

He wants to press on but he’s dumb, not an idiot — now’s not the time. So he just rests his head against the wall of the moving van, and tries not to worry too hard about the thief recoiling away from him and trying to look like he’s not.

 

It takes a while for Monday to break the silence. 

"Go ahead."

It’s astounding how clear Monday’s voice is, considering the breakdown just moments prior. Every syllable’s articulated — deliberately, effortfully sharp. Defensive.

"I'm sure you have a lot to say."

September peels himself off the wall, straightens up. Of course Monday’s right. He’s been waiting for the right time, ever since he heard the shouts down the hall in Syracuse — the FBI agents knocking on the door — since Ven asked to look at his pictures, all those months ago. 

Ever since he saw Monday standing in the mall window, and knew he should recognise him.

"I'm sorry." September struggles to find his words as he speaks to Monday’s profile. "I promised to help you and get to the bottom of this and... and I failed—"

“No.”

Monday’s looking at him now. Fighting with himself.

“ _ No.”  _ And all of the edge in his voice falls away. “You did help. Septie, you… you did everything right.”

It's almost like he might cry. And it’s almost impossible for September not to reach for the thief’s — the boy’s — hand again. Slowly, slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a wounded animal —

September knows Monday’s waiting for something else,  _ anything  _ else.

"So things aren’t going to plan. But at least we’re together. It’ll be okay. Just… just trust me.” 

Monday’s breathing gradually slows. So September just keeps talking, about everything, about nothing, he knows it’ll be what brings Monday back to shore—

“We’ll figure something out. We’ve managed so far, right? Just for a while more, okay? I promise, whatever happens, I won't go down without a fight."

Finally, at long last, the storm behind his eyes becomes calm.

"You don’t have to,” September says quietly, “but it’d help if you told me what's wrong."

"What…? Oh, nothing, it's, it’s just..."

Monday shudders like he’s in pain. Looks intensely at the wall.

"We are going exactly where I hoped I would never be again." A laugh, choked. "It's embarrassing, really. After all that running."

"No, you ran because it was the right thing to do. There's no shame in that." September says without hesitation. "And now that you've picked me on your team, I  _ will _ get us both out of here."

And look at that, his hand’s on Monday’s after all. It’s not the raw shock that it was before though it still makes Monday flinch a little, his eyes darting to September’s like a mouse, like a deer in headlights.

But he doesn’t move.

"He won't harm you," murmurs Monday. “I don't think so. But I don't know what his plans are. He’s… hard to read."

"Like father like son, huh? Doesn't matter. I've worked bigger cases with less," September jokes weakly. Then, softly, "What're you planning to do?"

Monday lets out a long breath, and smiles as best as he can. "Something, I suppose. I've escaped before, haven't I?"

But his smile doesn’t last long. 

"It didn't need to be you," he says. "I was selfish."

"Don't say that. It’s a compliment, kinda.”

"What, you like being in this mess?"

"You don't just pick any random fuzz off the street. I know how you make fools out of them. You think we're dumb." September laughs slightly through his nose. "And you're probably right."

Monday gives him a sidelong glance. "How do you think I picked you, then? Aside from the fact that you happened to be at the mall that day?"

"... Aside from that?" September looks at him, surprised. "There's more?"

"You seem to think so. You said I picked you, right?" Another smile creeps onto Monday's face. A slightly bigger one, a slightly genuine one. "Come on, out with it. Tell me what makes you worthy."

"How am I supposed to know? I assumed you went from town to town pranking cops left and right and just stuck to the first one you liked."

Even despite their circumstances, September's embarrassed.  _ (And there’s a laugh out of Blue. Look at that, playing along works.) _

"Well, I remember you said I couldn't ever turn down a lead."

Monday snorts, leaning back on the bench. "I was right, wasn't I? I was lucky enough to find the one cop in the city who'd be crazy enough to follow my lead."

September's expression softens. "I don't think it's _ all  _ luck. You have a talent for picking things that best suit your needs. That's why I said it was a compliment."

"You're saying I'm psychic? I'm  _ sure _ it's luck, Septie."

Monday chuckles a little, quietly amused. It’s strange how _ normal  _ things are suddenly. After all, it’s the first time they’ve really had a chance to talk, without bars or market stalls or wigs and skinny ties standing between them.

Just a thief and his cop, face to face.

"...Do you regret it?" asks Monday. “Me choosing you?”

September thinks about that.

"Sometimes. There's always so much on the line when it comes to dealing with you." He closes his eyes. "But I know if I was given the chance, I'd do it all again."

Monday smirks. "Wow, you are one big sappy romantic, sweetheart."

In turn, September's lip twitches in a smile. "How about you then, do  _ you  _ regret asking someone else for help?"

"I had to,” replies Monday firmly. "To get this far."

"Good. I'm glad you did."

September pauses.

"Listen. If... if something goes wrong, and I don't make it out with you, I... " 

He stops again. Swallows. 

“Look. I had plenty of chances to leave. Pursuing your leads was my choice. And like I said, I'd do it again if I had to. So whatever happens, I don’t want you to regret. Understood?"

It's September's lieutenant voice, no doubt he briefs his colleagues like this. Hollow as his voice sounds, September's words ring true, the way they always have.

And Monday, he recognises the tone immediately and smiles. 

"Alright, officer. Understood. I can't... promise. But I'll try."

He turns his gaze to the door, following the light that stripes in through the window bars. Staring through to the road beyond — a road that will be kind to neither of them.

"We'll both get out. I'll think of something."

 

Time passes like that, slowly, uneventfully, unmarked beyond the bump of the van or when they turn on and off highways. It's a long ride and September, despite his best efforts, loses track of where they're going and how long they've been in here.

Monday's quiet, but at least he doesn't constantly seem like he's imploding in his own skin anymore. September himself is struggling to stay awake, lulled by the darkness and the rhythm of the van. It's not like they can do anything anyway, right?

Once or twice, September comes awake on Monday's shoulder. When he does, he sits up and tries not to let it happen again. Doesn't really succeed.

The van finally stops. Are they here? Monday's gone tense beside him. But before either of them can think to do anything, the van door cracks open. They're momentarily blinded by the light — it's not even that bright out, it's already dusk — the grimy yellow light of an overhead streetlamp outlining the muzzles of two guns.

Two takeout containers and two bottles are tossed in. September catches them before they hit the floor of the van, and then the engine starts up again. Good to know they're still being fed.

"Five stars," he mutters under his breath as he hands one of each to Monday. "Here, come on. You gotta eat."

A stray thought occurs to him.  _ They know I won't let him starve himself. _

"It smells… decent. Hope you like Thai?"

"Relax, officer, I'll eat. You can't bring down a bastion of organised crime on an empty stomach."

Monday takes the container and examines its contents. Then he eats. With no reaction to the quality or lack thereof.

September relaxes, then takes a bite of his own food and nearly gags. He has to glance over at Monday to make sure they're eating the same thing (they are).

What the  _ fuck. _

But it's true. You can't bring down organised crime on an empty stomach. So he just swallows as much as he can and chases it down with enough water to drown out the taste.

"Can't help but notice you inspecting the food," he says, voice lowered. "Do they drug people?”

"Why yes, as a matter of fact,” replies Monday lightly. "But I just like to know what I'm eating."

September watches Monday, half-horrified, half-amused. “I see." (He doesn’t.)

 

Days pass — September can tell from the light through the door. Neither of them are particularly well rested and September’s just about ready to go stir crazy when the smell of baked sand finally gives way to grass.

(Grass? This far out in the desert?)

From the way Monday closes those walls around him again, they'll be here soon.

And sure enough, after a long drive up a hill, they finally come to a stop.

The van door opens. 

It's sunset. 

The sky is red. The long road down, the tarmac car park, the lush trees and the white walls bordering a vast compound, it's all red.

It'd be breathtaking if September didn't know better, but he does.

The mobster who opened the door wrinkles his nose, then gestures with his gun. "Out, both of you."

"Watch it," September snaps back, and doesn't let up until the guy rolls his eyes and lowers the muzzle slightly. 

Monday, on the other hand — they’ve wasted no time on him. He's cuffed and bound, with three guards surrounding him. Bound  _ tight.  _ No jibe or snarky remark from him — his face shows nothing but steel as they push Monday forward with a gun jammed roughly between his shoulder blades.

And the most insulting part of all this? September isn't even cuffed.

Once they walk around the van, though, there's no mistaking it.

The man at the top of the stairs, framed by a bold marble archway, with faded sunshine hair and dead eyes. His center-part fringe purposefully mussed, not a strand out of place otherwise. He's immaculate, from the navy waistcoat to his golden cufflinks, black satin tie and gloves. Exactly as he’d looked in the photograph.

All that's missing… is his daughter.

His eyes, dead as they are, still light when he sees Monday — although his son's eyes remain lifeless as a corpse, and he still refuses to speak.

He knows his father can speak enough for both of them.

"Welcome home," Decade smiles. "You must be tired."

It’s a voice like honey — thick and toxic. He extends a gloved hand to gesture at everything and nothing, then tucks it back into his pocket. His movements remind September of Monday’s, just a little.

"Make yourselves at home, what's mine is yours. We'll catch up over supper."

Servants open the door for him and just like that, he vanishes into the house.

And that's when September realises he hadn't even gotten a word in like he'd been planning for the whole trip. 

"Sorry, Septie, he’s  _ painfully  _ shy." He can see how disappointed the officer is. "Come on. Welcome to Tartarus."

 

From the outside Tartarus looks plain. Straight walls, no ornate carvings, plain windows.

But the inside. It's _ lavished.  _ The same meticulous detail given to museums, for dead and precious things put up for display. September half expected to see something like that — he did watch too many movies as a teen — but it's surprisingly homely. Expensive and antique, but homely nonetheless. Which is strange, because it has an air of sterile disuse to it.

September and Monday are guided up the entrance stairs, into the heart of the house along a series of winding corridors.  Things have been moved, the walls lighter in spots that were once hidden by paintings, and silhouettes of furniture that used to be there. Easy fixes, spots like those — which meant they’d been left for them to see.

And the room at the end of the hallway is awash with blue, soft light filtering through sapphire curtains, pale blue constellations running across the walls and ceiling. Books and stationery on the desk. A dresser and closet surely full of clothes. And a king sized bed fitted snug with navy galaxy sheets, with a mound of stuffed toys at the head.

"Well." Monday shuffles forward awkwardly under all his restraints. "This is  _ not _ how I imagined inviting you back to my place."

"And you mean Syracuse _was?"_ September stares around, fuming. "Ugh. This is _sick."_

He helps Monday over to the bed so he can sit, then paces the room in frustration. Very much like a caged animal. "He left your other room to rot and made a new one? Here? What's his fucking deal? What can he gain out of this, huh? —"

"It's simple, really. He clearly expected me to return."

Monday hops up onto the plush bed with his cuffed ankles and lands squarely on the mattress. He bounces a little.

September gives him a weird look. "Not going to inspect the bed for booby traps?"

"Why would he harm his prizes?" says Monday, muffled by the mattress.

_ "Pri _ — Ugh.  _ Urgh."  _ September runs fingers through his hair. "I don't get him. How am I going to make a plan if I don't understand him?"

Monday rolls over and wriggles. "You'll get to know him intimately tonight. Till then, ask me anything."

"He gives me the creeps. I don't think I want to know him at all. Much less  _ intimately.” _

He comes over with a pen and starts working at the knots on Monday's bonds. 

"You can start by telling me what you mean by  _ prizes.” _

"I just mean he kept you alive for a reason. He wouldn't kill you now. And as for me..." Monday’s tone turns sour. "Why would he kill his favourite child?"

A knot on the rope comes off. 

September pauses, brows furrowing briefly. He goes back to work. "That should not be a decision _ any _ father makes. Yesterday was his child too, but he's not deploying an entire task force to recapturing him."

"Yesterday didn't  _ run.  _ He’s placed at Cafe Time for a reason." Monday smiles. "He was always better at making friends, I’m sure he’s well-protected by now."

September stares, then nods.

"You and your dad. Tell me how you're related."

"I told you at Syracuse, it's not biological. He just… picked me off the street. Like all the others."

"All the others? You mean…”September has to pause and draw a steadying breath. "The other children he dealt with?"

Monday hesitates. "Yesterday and I knew we were lucky. Until now, I'm still not sure how he made his picks."

September's voice is harsh. "So you were a victim."

"No, no." Monday's grin is more of a grimace. "I proved myself. We all did. When I was eight years old, I broke through his window in Syracuse and tried to steal some stuff. He caught me almost immediately, of course. But he  _ smiled _ at me."

Monday’s uncharacteristically open. Perhaps there's no point in keeping his guard up anymore. Especially here.

"And you have to understand, as a street urchin, you don't get smiled at a lot."

September scoffs. "And what, he just... decided to keep you? And you didn't run?"

"Look, I just stole some cash from this guy, and he was  _ giving  _ me stuff. Food. A place to stay. New clothes. Like he was  _ proud _ of me or something." Monday’s expression is far away. "You don't pass that up. Not at eight."

There's no pity in September's expression or his voice. "You met his other children then — Yesterday, and the girl?"

"Yes. I was the last." He seems wistful. "It was nice. Back when we had no idea what was going on. Things aren't as gross when you're a kid, you know? You get used to it."

"Did he have a wife?"

Finally the last rope falls away — Monday breathes in deep. He’s still cuffed, both wrists and ankles, but those ropes were  _ tight.  _

"Yes, he did. But she died... pretty sure it wasn't him who did it."

"How'd you know? He seems crazy enough that he'd do it. No offence," he adds wryly, for the benefit of potential room bugs. 

“There was an autopsy,” Monday says soberly. "Natural causes. She just went to sleep and never woke up."

"Oh." September looks guilty. "Uh... sorry." He sits heavily on the edge of the bed. "And even through all the gross things, you stayed. Until something went wrong, and you ran.” 

”It wasn’t long after that I met you. I'd like to say I spent most of my life thinking about it... but like I said.” Monday shrugs with his cuffed arms. “You get used to it."

September doesn’t say anything, he just looks troubled.

"Then… what happened to the girl?"

A rap on the door. September bristles and springs to his feet, stepping protectively in front of Monday —

_ "Dinner's ready," _ says a gun from outside, for all the world like they’re just visiting the parents and he’s a nosy uncle.  _ "You two doin’ OK in there? Is this a sock on the knob kinda thing?" _

"Fuck off," September growls.

_ "Uh, real nice, kids, but you gotta come out to eat sooner or later." _

_ "Coming, _ Randall, don't get your knickers in a twist."

September jumps, startled, when Monday saunters by his ear. With his arms unbound from his sides, he’s evidently had no trouble unpicking both cuffs at his wrists and ankles. 

"His name's not Randall," he whispers to September. "But do me a favour and keep calling him that for me, would you?"

He moves to open the door. 

"Hope you're not too hungry."

"Actually," September says as he beats Monday to the door and pulls it open, "I'm kind of starving. They've been feeding us shit food."

He only has a scowl and a  _ 'Fuck you, Randall' _ for not-Randall, who rolls his eyes like he’s paid to shoot things and not shepherd around a bunch of foul-mouthed kids.

They follow not-Randall to the dining room. Just as expected, the hallway is scattered with guards, though none appear to be armed.

The dining room, like the rest of the house, is a mark of obscene wealth. Utterly overdone, a gaudy statement in itself.  High ceilinged, tall windows that show off the lush plants surrounding the mansion, and frame the featureless desert beyond. All the typical fixtures are there: an elaborate chandelier, grand oil paintings, a smouldering fireplace. Even the table is its own centrepiece, aged mahogany rimmed with countless chairs.

And at the head of the table, leaning easily against his chair, is Monday's father in his Sunday best.

"It's about  _ time," _ says Decade, "we knew each other a little more."


	21. Chapter 21

"It's about _time,"_ says Monday’s father, “we knew each other a little more.”

Then he smiles, indulgently, as September and Monday are guided to two chairs to his right. "Wordplay for my favorite child. And for his best friend —" his eyes travel slowly to the cop, who's barely short of audible growling, "— you may call me Decade. The food should be here any moment."

Decade takes his seat, and the movement snaps something inside of September. Monday realises the tension of the last few days hasn't really ever left the detective, and it's coming out in a rush. Badly.

He sees the wild look on September’s face as he rushes by him, snatching a steak knife from the table. The guards spring into motion as September closes in on Decade, arm raised. But the man doesn't react. Doesn't even look at September, as he knocks the first guard out of his way with a practiced shove and then brings the knife down —

The blade’s so close to Decade’s neck.

He’s so close. So close to plunging it in. But — but the blade never connects. Not even as Decade raises a hand in an order for his men to stand down. September’s trying. Everyone can see it.

But a cop's a cop, and September's a dumb one — he flings the knife across the room, defeated.

"I'm not gonna fucking let you get away with this."

"Alright," Decade replies. Exactly like appeasing a petulant child. "Can this wait until after dinner?"

Two guards pull September back into his seat. He's still glaring at Decade, while Monday gazes at him from behind — _pity_ doesn't quite cover his expression. Sadness, maybe. But also respect.

He turns to Decade. "So, Dad! How've you been?"

"Entertained," replies the other man with a smile. "Proud that you're making friends. He's too good for you."

Monday laughs, once. "Too bad you raised me to be such a terrible human being."

"A right shame indeed. I imagine you met Yesterday? How is he—"

"Are we just going to fucking talk?" September says roughly.

Decade muses. "Well, we could play some party games if you want."

"This is fucked up. We're your prisoners, not your guests."

Decade gives Monday a look. _Deal with your friend._ To which Monday kicks September under the table — the cop jerks and growls but mercifully shuts up — giving Decade a look of his own. _He's not mine to deal with._

Someone replaces September's steak knife and the scattered cutlery as Decade speaks again. "I was hoping to have little Yestie at our little reunion, same as his friend Fort. But such is life."

"That's right.” Monday’s head lolls on the heel of his hand. “People live. People die. People run away from unhealthy households."

"And how did that go, running? Did you see anything nice? You must've had quite the adventure."

"Quite. I am now in possession of over fifty orchestra-quality trombones."

"How _do_ you find the time to play them all," drawls Decade, amused. "Humour me, Monday. Brilliant name, by the way, I think it's adorable. _Monday._ Where did you go?"

Monday just looks at Decade. "You know exactly where I went."

"You went off the radar for a long while. I had to expend a lot of resources just to sight you once." With fondness, "You learned well."

Decade's emotion only makes Monday's gaze grow harder.

"Thank you, father."

"There really is no reason to stand on ceremony, son. You were always my favorite."

Aproned servants bring out the food. Three silver platters, one for each of them.

"Ah, thank you," smiles Decade as the covers are lifted. "I have been looking forward to this. You two should eat."

On each plate is a medium-rare steak, along with mashed potatoes and salad.

But not just any steak. The biggest, thickest, juiciest cut of red meat that September has ever seen. Absolutely massive, yet so _refined_ somehow, rich red-brown and carved to perfection — delicately crusted with herbs and ringed with viscous, deep burgundy sauce.

Monday's face is carefully blank.

"So what's for dinner today, dad? Dog?"

"Why yes, actually."

Decade wields his cutlery and digs in. September, however, just stares at his food with visible struggle.

"I can't eat a dog," he murmurs weakly to Monday. "I like dogs."

"I'm afraid my dear friend's vegetarian, Dad," proclaims Monday as he starts on the mash and salad. "It's religious. So sorry we couldn't inform you in advance."

"Shame, that. It's delicious, I think it's the exercise. And you, son? I didn't raise you to waste food."

Monday looks at the meat. He looks at Decade.

Without shifting his gaze, he carves a hunk from the steak and pierces it with his fork.

Puts it in his mouth. Chews. Swallows.

And his father’s satisfied, resuming his meal with a smile playing on his lips. "Good to see that your roots are still about you, Monday Blue.

And then he looks to Monday’s left. “Septie, right? Are you sure you don't want to try? I always teach my children they should try everything once. How do you know you don't like something until you try it, hmm?"

"It's _religious,_ dad. Don't be insensitive."

Decade’s eyes light upon his son again — yielding a wider, slower smile. "But I could've sworn he was fine with the food on the way here."

"It was a captive situation. He gave me all the meat. Or what vaguely looked like meat."

"Ah. I see. Of course. I don't mean to overstep my boundaries."

September's been watching all this stiffly, dumbly, as Decade gestures and someone replaces his food. It’s just the mash and salad now. He waits, fork and knife hovering, until Monday nods and he begins to eat self-consciously.

"I'm curious, son. How did you meet Septie?"

"Oh, it's classic. He tried to arrest me. I jumped through a window. Inseparable ever since."

Decade almost laughs. "You must've been a right pain. I saw it on the news. Three million in jewellery. I apologise for my son," he says to September. "You know how boys are."

"Um," ventures September around his fork. "Okay."

He’s clearly stumped. Monday takes over. "Unfortunately September has no sons of his own, and I'm sure he was a perfect child in his youth. Besides, you misrepresent me. I returned nearly all of it."

"As I have come to learn, Monday, perfect children don't exist. You have to build them. So where _is_ that golden chain? I don't suppose it serves as a trophy, you're barely one for sentiment."

"It's up my ass."

Decade puts his fork down with a _clang_ that silences every other sound in the room.

"I do _not_ want this kind of talk at the dinner table."

"Suck it, dad."

But Monday’s fearless. Determinedly so.

Decade just gazes at him, like any long-suffering parent waiting for an apology. Monday's clearly done this many, many times.

"I'm sorry."

Perfectly measured. Contrite, but deliberately so. Not taking his eyes off Decade for a second.

Decade drums his fingers on the tables, just once.

"Times like this you remind me that you ran away before I was done with you. You had so much potential. Only to waste it all."

It comes out airy, deliberately so, but even dumbstruck September can tell the words are chosen to wound.

"Pretty boys like you are treasures in their own right — I could have turned you for a profit. Yet I hand-picked you, groomed you, chose you over my own daughter." A pause. "You know that, don't you? It's why you'll finish your food. Why you'll continue calling me 'daddy' and still believe it."

And with the slightest of edges, "Why you'll apologise properly, before the night’s over. And mean every syllable."

Somehow, Monday's stare doesn't budge. "I've kinda outgrown 'daddy', don't you think. Won't 'dad' do?"

"You haven't outgrown the habit of lying to yourself,” Decade’s voice drips with pity, like Monday's the fool. "It's as if you wasted those four years."

"Excuse you. I became the _finest_ thief in Conrad District."

"And yet, here you are."

Decade finishes the last of his food, wipes his mouth. "It's disgraceful you'll let your friend see you like this."

"Indeed. A _terrible_ shame that you would let such a _disgrace_ through your fingers," says Monday, chin on his hand, grinning. "And how do you know that all this isn't part of an even grander plan?"

"If it is, I will rescind my evaluation of you. Credit where credit is due. I will say though, as one schemer to the next." It's Decade's turn to rest his cheek against his hand, nursing a smirk. "You wouldn't be in this predicament if you escaped after I taught you everything I had to teach you. Defecting from this family is never a good card to play."

"So that's all you had to teach me? _Family is forever?_ Can't say I learned much of that. Given what you do to your family."

Decade barks out a laugh. It's hoarse and unnatural.

And just like that, he's standing between September and Monday, one arm resting on the backrest of each chair.

September's frozen, staring at that satin-gloved hand.

It seemed Decade moved in only the blink of an eye.

"You goad me now but you squandered your chance to learn years ago, child. You defected from me once, you can stay a defect."

And he pulls away, turning his backs on them both as he makes his way over to the wine cabinet.

September lets out a harsh exhale, turning to Monday with the stare of a scared little boy. He's so far out of his league, of every league he’s ever known. So as soon as Monday sees that Decade's back is turned, he takes September's hand.

Squeezes it quickly. _I know._

When Decade returns, Monday's all smiles again. "So who's your new pick? Now that you've run out."

"I might tell you if you earn the right to know." He admires the color of the red wine in his hand, then deftly fills three glasses.

Monday rolls his eyes. "Rhetorical, Dad. I can make a good guess. You weren't exactly subtle with your favourites."

“Ah, but change is a constant.” Decade smirks around his fork. "I have a new shipment coming in tomorrow noon. If you wish to attempt currying my favour, I'll send you out with the next team."

Shipment? Predictably, September perks up. It doesn't go unnoticed.

"I don't suppose your _friend_ knows how you support the business."

To September, wryly, "You should ask him."

"Uh, no, it's, okay. I'll just—"

"I'm trying to involve you in the conversation, Redmond." Decade gives him a meaningful look. "Besides, you're a detective. You'll be able to stomach this, I'm sure."

September lets out a resigned exhale and glances sidelong at Monday who whispers back, a horrid charade of the embarrassed son at a dinner party — "He won't miss a chance to tell this story. He's _so_ proud of it."

Decade smirks wider. Then obliges. "My son does a wonderful job of whisking children off the street, sometimes at parks, or in malls when parents aren't looking. He can _almost_ manage taking a child from a stroller while a parent's pushing it."

September's eyes go wide. Monday can feel September's heart breaking from where he sits.

"He's good with kids," Decade goes  without pause, "in a way I never was."

Monday looks at no one. He eats his salad.

"Is it true?" September's voice is strained.

"I never lie," says Decade. Then to Monday, asks, "Right, Tomorrow?"

September furrows his brow. "Tomorr—"

_Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow._

Decade's daughter is called _Today._

September growls, "You made him do it. He wouldn't do it if he could."

"Tomorrow required very little guidance. As if he was made for it. You can tell that from a child after you've had thousands pass through your hands.”

“You would think," says Tomorrow, looking at his salad, "that a crime lord would prefer his successor to _diversify._ Cocaine rings. Money-laundering. Forgeries. But no.”

There's venom in every word.

"Children were always his currency."

Decade seems to swell a little with pride. Corks his bottle, hands them the glasses.

"To set the record straight, Redmond, my favorite story is how little Tomorrow came to be mine in the first place—"

September slams his hands on the table. "You don't talk about child trafficking like it's an accomplishment," he snarls.

"But it is. The number of children who’ve been transported? That’s a number not even you know. And yet here we are, you talking to perhaps the mastermind behind the entire operation, without a shred of evidence to pin your crimes to me. I imagine not even the intel you scrounged up from Karika Fishery linked those crimes definitively to me.”

Decade smiles then, good and proper, showing teeth.

"The only possible suspect _you_ have for your case, dear Septie, is Tomorrow. The one who’s been delivering these clues to you and running rings around your squad for nigh close to a year. The feds think he’s the mastermind, after all."

September hesitates. So blatantly clear he's beaten.

Decade’s eyes dart to Tomorrow. "Children are smarter than you think. They don't follow a thug's promise of candy into the dark interior of a van, no. Only a child can take another child."

There's really nothing more for his son to say. He seems tired and taut. "So, Dad. You want to tell him how I was found?"

"Tomorrow was a little scruffy ruffian who turned up in my study at midnight, hoping to steal my wallet. Somehow he'd managed to unlatch the window without alerting any of my guards. An impressive feat for an underweight orphan.”

Decade genuinely means all this.

"He was also careless and sloppy, but he had guts, and that's what I liked about him. And he never turned down a chance he was given. Plus, I couldn't pass him by after I saw how thin and exhausted he was." A pause. “Unlike Today, or Yesterday, he had a spark of defiance in him that I immediately recognised as potential."

"Defiance? Potential? I thought you despised defects."

“When you were little I had great plans for you."

"Aw, and then I got too old?"  
  
"It's not age that makes a child unwieldy, my dear — much simpler, really. It's whether they can be seen and not heard."   
  
"And I suppose your other _defects_ didn't play by those rules."   
  
"Today was always heard. Yesterday was never seen." He fixes his son with a look. “And we’ll find your silence yet. I promise you that.”

"That's fucked up," says September.

Decade gazes steadily at him. "What is?"

No scolding him for his vulgarities, or speaking out of line. Truly only Tomorrow is his child.

"Your dumb idea about bringing up kids and… _molding_ them into what you want. I grew up hating people like you. _Monday_ is one of the strongest people I know. He'll always be better than you."

(With Decade's eyes on September, Monday allows himself a little smile.)

Decade contemplates him, amused. "Our worlds were never meant to intersect, detective. You have values, morals… I know your kind, officer. You believe in _doing the right thing._ Like not killing people with steak knives."

He picks up his own bloodied steak knife.

"But as soon as the tables turn. If I were to push an old lady into a car, or kidnap another child, or say…” He stands. Walks over. Slowly, so they can see him.

Then quick as a flash has the blade almost flat against his son's neck.

September bolts upright, chair toppling behind him.

"See?" Decade smiles, spying September's own steak knife in his hand, trembling from the tension. His eyes shine, almost wild, almost carnal. "You would abandon all your morals in an instant. All you need… is a single excuse."

"Let go of Monday," growls September.

"He's not afraid. Look at him." Decade's right, he hasn't even moved a muscle. "Don't be so full of yourself."

Decade tosses the steak knife at September in a movement almost careless, and the blade tip sinks deep in the table. If the detective hadn’t jerked out of the way in time —

"Now, Redmond, I understand that you may have different beliefs. But this is my household, and for now, I'm afraid, you'll have to play by my rules."

September holds very very still as Decade places an avuncular hand on his shoulder. Ever the good cop, though it burns from the inside out, he mutters, "Yes sir."

And Monday hates seeing his cop like this.

"Why keep him?" he says to Decade, bravely. "What's your use for him?"

Decade returns his hands to his sides. His words are perfectly loaded. "Because I'd hate for you to be lonely."

Monday smiles. "How sweet."

The door opens at the far end of the room and a familiar figure strides in.

Ven Pemberton has cleaned himself up since the hideout, but still looks rather miserable in a way the newly applied wax in his hair can't hide.

He sees September, obviously. But his duty is to answer to the boss first.

"You asked for me, sir?" he says without colour.

Monday stares him down.

"Ah. Perfect timing. The boys have finished their food —” Decade glances at Monday’s plate — “for the most part, and I was hoping to catch up with you."

"Pleasure," greets Monday, deadpan. There isn't much to say, and Ven has even less to say in return.

Ven gravely walks along the table and takes his seat beside Decade, opposite Monday and September, as the boss gives him a father’s smile. "It's been a long time, Eleven.”

Decade retakes his seat. September remains standing, tense with hatred. _Eleven? — Ven. What a shitty name._

"You fuck! For all these years. You played me and Paul and Mina for fools!—"

"Redmond," warns Decade, "Not at my lieutenant, please. And certainly not from across the table. Did your parents teach you nothing?"

He looks at Monday and gestures. _Control him._ The boy rolls his eyes and kicks September under the table again, but does nothing more.

"Eleven, huh?” September continues, unabated, fists clenched tight,”Bet that isn't even your real name. You piece of shit. You absolute _bastard._ How many cops died in the line of duty for you?”

Ven keeps his somber gaze just over September’s shoulder and says nothing.

“Ven, _fuck!_ I thought we could get along. I respected you. I thought you actually cared about your fucking work even if you were a shitty cop sometimes, fuck, _fuck,_ I thought you cared about the squad—"

Then his face is slammed down against the table, straight into the wineglass and the plate of food and the silverware.

One of Decade’s gloved hands holding his head down, almost effortlessly so.

"Two chances, Tomorrow. Which have been plenty. I don't tend to hurt my favorites. But I won't say the same for Septie, who has been the object of my aggravations for many months.”

With his free hand, he reaches for his wineglass, then the bottle, and fills it halfway with deep ruby wine. September coughs around the food and struggles vainly, somehow unable to get enough leverage, fuck, he can’t even breathe—

“I am a man of second chances, Tomorrow, but only within reason. I asked you to rein in your feisty detective and you didn’t. So I’m afraid you’ve forced my hand.”

September slumps against the table at last, eyes shut tight. Finally understanding that fighting back — fighting at all, in the way he’s familiar with — will get him absolutely nowhere.

Decade takes an unhurried sip of his drink. Takes his time.

“September, please. Do yourself a favour. Conduct yourself or I will decide your conduct for you."

There’s nothing except for September’s rough, hitched breathing. Decade finally releases him and ambles back to his seat, leaving September to scrape himself off the table, off the shards of shattered glass and smashed food.

Monday realises the only reason he's gone still is the trickling gash above his eyebrow, the dark stain of not-wine on the tablecloth.

Still, and very pale.

Immediately he's leaning over to September's chair, dabbing the gash with his clean napkin. Pressing firmly to staunch the bleeding.

"Shh," he says, with the utmost gentleness. "Shhh. It's okay."

Squeezing September's hand with his other hand. Uncharacteristically, September winces at his touch. He doesn’t say or do anything, just looks confused and apologetic and… afraid.

"Sorry, Dad, he's _sensitive."_ Monday throws a glance back at Decade — who, disquietingly, is studying the both of them with his blank, lifeless eyes.

A soft clink draws everyone’s attention to the other side of the table, as Ven's food is brought out to him and the cover lifted. Mash, salad, and a glistening hunk of meat.

Ven looks at it and takes a deep breath.

"Wine, Eleven?" says Decade, offering the bottle.

“Thank you, sir.” Predictably, Ven begins on the mash and salad first.

"My apologies. No thanks to my son, you were in right the pressure cooker for a while." Decade pours out a glass of wine for Ven, then leans on his hand. "Honestly, though. Twenty years of investigative and police experience. I thought you'd be better prepared."

Ven takes a measured sip. His hand does not tremble. Much. "I did as you wanted, sir.”

"You did. But we both know you made many mistakes in the process. Do you know how you rose up the ranks so quickly, Eleven?"

"I'm sure it's only with your favour, sir."

"Correct. I pulled _many_ strings for you, Eleven. Time was of the essence. Which I'm sure everyone here knows intimately. And yet, to think _I_ knew of Tomorrow's reappearance sooner than you did. That I had to _deliver_ the news to you on a silver platter, and still you failed to take satisfactory action."

"I found out as soon as he entered my sphere of influence. Showing his face on Conrad's police radar. And from there, I chose the most prudent course of action."

"Which was what," Monday pipes up, "exactly?"

He's passed the napkin to September, staring at Ven openly now — and the untouched steak on his plate.

Ven swallows. "I saw that my subordinate was investigating him, and let things run their course."

"When your _subordinate_ nearly exposed one of my covers, did you not think he and Tomorrow were in cahoots?” says Decade.

"I did think it, sir. But as you know, my priority is maintaining my cover. I could not act out of accordance with the investigation as long as Redmond was turning up legitimate evidence."

There's a hint of a smile on Monday's face. Could it be? The subtlest jab at Decade? And if anyone looked at September, they'd see a look that says: _Yeah, I do my job, fucking arrest me._

"Your directive was to secure Monday,” continues Ven, poker-faced. “I surmised that letting the investigation continue would draw him out into the open. And that the investigation would barely pose an actual threat to your assets."

"In what was a very fortunate turn of events, you were right,” replies Decade. “But more importantly, when I played the pieces that would send _Tomorrow_ charging straight into your precinct of his own accord, you let him slip from your grasp. And you didn't even properly utilize the hands I had provided you."

Decade’s gaze hardens.

"To top it all off, Mina Cara survived."

Ven's silent now. He knows his mistakes. Monday, watching him, smiles even more. "Yeah, that last one was my fault. Sorry."

But Decade’s attention doesn’t waver from Ven. "Now you make me spell out your idiocies for you. I hate doing that, you are aware.”

He leans forward on the table. "But thankfully, you brought the dog in. Go on. That's your reward."

Ven stares at his plate. Slowly, reluctantly, he cuts a hunk off the meat.

A smaller hunk. The smallest hunk possible.

He eats it. And he nearly gags — clearly, it's his first time eating dog. The cut of meat is clearly done rarer than everyone else’s, bloody juices pooling on the white porcelain. Even Monday's stare begins to look sympathetic.

But Decade's expression is still unforgiving. _Not enough._

There isn't much else for Ven to do besides keep eating. He swallows one mouthful, and moves on to the next.

You get used to it.

Decade doesn't let him stop until he's cleaned his plate. Then he leans back and nurses his wine. "Your days in Conrad are over.  I want you to join the search for Yesterday and his friend Fortnight. Bring them to me. But before the precinct figures out your cover, do use your system access to make sure June Cobalt is dealt with _properly._ You’re a merciful man, I know. Arrest without bail will be adequate."

September twitches in his chair just as Ven does. Decade merely smiles. "Incidentally, how's Evelyn? Terrible twos and threes, learning about the power to say _no?"_

"Evelyn," Ven clarifies, voice heavy, "is fifteen months old."

"Could've sworn she was bigger than that."

Somewhere through this exchange, September's expression has gone from hatred to open pity.

"Appreciate her, Eleven. Just thinking about your girl almost makes me miss the times I had with mine. I don’t suppose you’d want to bring her here —” it becomes clear that the edge to Decade’s genial smile is in fact, sadism — “but she has a nanny, no? If there’s anything they need, anything at all, just let me know."

"I will keep you updated," says Ven. Hopelessly. "Thank you, sir."

He's quick to leave the room, with a last lingering glance at September. Mainly, it's apologetic. But it's also humiliation. And finally, shame.

The door clicks shut.

"...I have to ask," quips Monday. "Did you raise him up to Eleven just so you could make the name pun?"

"The name itself was an _eleventh-hour_ decision, though he did seem like a Ven Pemberton to me. Speaking of Ven… Have you met Seven, son?"

Decade grins. It’s a horrific sight.

“I think you should.”

September flinches — it seems a feat that Monday’s only reaction is to raise his eyebrows a notch. "I really don't know if I've met Seven already. People come and go so quickly."

"Ah, no, he’s a new addition.” There’s an odd tone to Decade’s voice, he’s relishing each word like food.  “It was a toss up — Ven to Eleven, or to Seven. Turns out Seven's really more a Steven."

He clicks his tongue and the moment's gone. There's a faintly fatherly tone in the way he commands, "Eat. And I'm still waiting on that apology for your appalling behaviour. Then you may retire to your room."

There's just a few morsels left on Monday's plate. It's clear that Monday could drag this charade on forever if he wanted to, but it's also clear that September is fading fast.

Monday finishes his meal and smiles sweetly at Decade. "I'm sorry, _daddy._ I was ever so rude to you."

And yet, unthinkably, out of some spark of defiance, he reaches out to September with a finger — scooping up a gob of mashed potato that's clinging onto his shoulder.

He sucks his finger clean. "I'll _never_ do it again."

Decade looks at them. Examining them, again.

And then, he stands. There's a strange look in his eyes.

"Come with me, both of you."

He walks out of the room without waiting to see if they'll follow. Immediately, September smacks Monday's finger out of his mouth. "What the fuck. Are we gonna follow him or what?"

They both notice the room has cleared of guards, most of them only the servants who're making short work of the dishes. September mutters — "We can make a run for it."

"And go where?” Monday whispers back. It’s as though his voice is harsher now — truer, after an hour of playing _Tomorrow._ “Even if this place wasn't crawling with guards, what do you think's out there? Sand and more sand.”

"Does it matter? Anywhere but here."

Monday stares at September like he’s crazy, before realising September probably thinks the same of him.

“...You don't have to come with me." Monday says.

September stares in return. Then huffs, loudly, agonisingly — and gets out his seat to trudges after Decade.

After months of running and taking the lead in Monday’s case, it’s time for September to let Monday decide the moves.

They catch up to Decade, who's waiting for them at the top of the grand marble staircase leading to the ground floor.

The door is wide open. Warm golden light spills out onto the tiles below. The sound of crickets and warbling frogs floats into the house.

"I know how desperately you want to leave, son,” says Decade. “Every morsel of your body screams it. You hate me, you hate this place. You hate what I made you become.”

Decade holds up a silver key. Lets it catch the light. Places it on the banister, within easy reach of Monday.

“Who am I to refuse my favorite son? If you want, you may leave.”

It’s a car key — probably to one of the vehicles at Tartarus’ disposal. Monday doesn't blink. "So I can only leave after five working days, or...?"

He lets the joke go quickly. His face is drawn up, full of steel.

"If there's one thing I learned from you, Dad, it's that I can't take anything at face value. Especially not from you."

Decade hums. "Clever boy. I _was_ hoping you'd take the key, then I'd hold my favorite pistol to your friend's head and dare you to walk out the door."

There's an audible inhale from September, which seems to remind Decade that he still has one more person to toy with.

"How about you, Red? Take this key, and I'll give you the contacts of all my lieutenants. The paperwork. Probably enough leads to last you twelve lifetimes. My son stays here, of course, you understand—"

September winds his arm back, for a strike that would send Decade plunging down the stairs and down to the first floor —

— except that Monday's clinging onto that arm with all his strength.

He hisses in September's ear. Every syllable is strained.

_"Stop. Stop it. He'll kill you. Dad'll kill you."_

Fear creeping into his voice that he's suppressed for the whole dinner.

Decade, despite his nonchalant air and contemptuous smirk, falls back several paces as he watches his son wrestle with September.

"I'll _fucking_ kill him." At Decade he snarls, "Your lieutenants’ lives mean fucking _nothing_ to you, don't they! They've never been anything but toys to you!"

Monday’s holding on for dear life but September's much taller and far stronger, and he's so consumed with rage that he easily pushes Monday aside. Monday hits the banister and the key clinks against the marble floor.

September snaps out of it almost immediately. He closes his eyes shut to ground himself, and then pulls Monday back upright.

Decade, on the other hand.

Monday’s eyes flick to him and he freezes — the set in the jaw and the weight across the brow, he knows that anger better than anything in the world —

"September Redmond." Decade's slipping off one of his gloves. "Come here —"

“He’s sorry, dad,” Monday blurts out. “He—”

“I said come _here, now_ —”

"I apologise, sir," September interrupts, and Decade pauses. The detective pulls himself together, stands at attention with gaze lowered. "I shouldn't have hit him. It was stupid and I fucked up. I didn't mean it. I’ll behave."

Decade _looks_ at September properly. Then his eyes slide over to his son, who's still motionless where he stands, so terrified he might snap.

(Thank god his cop knows how to give in for once, thank god, _thank god.)_

"Once is once too many." Decade tugs his glove back on and clasps both hands in front of him, every bit the kind, merciful parent. "I am a man of patience, Redmond, and I can forgive mistakes after they are atoned for.”

His gaze sharpens, it’s like looking into the glowing, unblinking eyes of a serpent.

“But if you _ever_ lay a single hand on my son again, being _sorry_ will be the least of your concerns."

September nods, just once.

"Leave my sight,” says Decade, turning back to the dining room. Monday doesn't need telling twice. He drags September back inside, down the familiar hallways that he can navigate without pause, without thought — wasting no time in getting his cop as far, far away from his father as possible.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warnings in this chapter, see end of chapter for notes.

They're back in Monday's room soon enough.

Once inside, Monday just looks at September for a while, every kind of emotion playing across his eyes.

He doesn't know what to say. What could cover it?

Without another word, Monday strides into the bathroom and… immediately starts throwing up into the sink.

September’s beside Monday quickly, rubbing his back in firm, even strokes. The contents of the basin, as much as he tries not to look, are brown and chunky.

“Monday,” September says, cautiously. 

Monday shakes his head, one hand over his mouth, catching his breath. Preparing for another round. But before that, he reaches below the sink and — without a glance backwards — lifts out a squat rectangular box and swings it onto the counter.

A first aid kit. It isn’t until September takes it and puts it down that Monday leans over once again, until he’s throwing up nothing but saliva.

“Sorry,” says Monday, eventually. "I… guess you'd want to do it yourself.”

He’s referring to September dressing his wound. But September brushes it off. “That can wait. What’s wrong?”

Monday’s eyes flit to the mirror, then away again. "Oh, nothing, really."

"You look awful. Uh, was the meat fine?" A pause. "… Are you… allergic to dog?"

"Doberman."

"You could tell what breed it was? Just by eating it? —"

September trails off.

_ They'd arrived in one van, but several had accompanied them here. _

"You… You mean…" He looks at the brown chunks in the sink. "That's… that's… not dog."

Monday grins widely, grimly, with a scrap of pink in his teeth. "Stay vegetarian, darling."

"Oh  _ fuck."  _ September turns away. "You ate all of it— and Ven, he— Oh god, I think I feel sick."

"It's his favourite kind of punishment." Monday sticks a fingernail in his mouth, flicking one last shred of gristle into the basin. "You get to screw up two people at once! I'm sure he's acquired a taste for the meat himself."

September shudders, reaches over to turn on the tap. Watches the pink and the brown and the whole mess spiral down the drain.

He reaches for the first aid kit. “I’ll do it at the dresser.” 

Monday just clutches the sink edges and stares, heavy-lidded, into the bathroom mirror. It’s unclear whether he’s watching September go.

 

When Monday comes out at last, September’s just finished applying the gauze on his forehead. Monday can see his fingers trembling, just slightly.

“Septie,” he begins, “about the children—”

“You said you were being punished. Forced to eat… that,” September says, not looking at him even in the mirror. “What’re you being punished for?”

"I ran.” In this room of cushions and comforts, Monday’s stiff. Arms loose at his sides, gaze turned to the floor. “I tried to take down Decade's entire operation. And I failed at both. You could almost say I deserved it."

“You don’t.” September says. “This place is fucked up.”

"I just wish I knew earlier. A few of the older ones tried to warn us kids. We thought they were joking. We didn't really have another frame of reference." Monday pauses. “I’m sorry.”

September shakes his head.  _ Don’t be. _ “Who else?”

“What?”

“You said we, so I thought… Yesterday and Today? What about Ann? They lived with you, didn’t they?”

Monday watches September pack up the first aid kit. He looks uneasy.

"Ann was one. Along with her sister. Yesterday and I were found, but I don't know where the twins are from, really. I would’ve thought they’d be next in line for Decade's throne, they certainly deserved it, but now I think it might be Seven, whoever that is."

“We should meet him,” says September, leaning against the dresser. 

"I'm pretty sure that the moment you or I ever meet Seven," replies Monday, "we'll be dead.” 

September looks at Monday strangely. "So you're saying that you  _ weren't _ killed, and in your place…" He lets out a pained breath. "Where's Decade's real child? His daughter? Today?"

Monday's very solemn.

"I didn't kill her," he says, "if that's what you're asking. I would never… and… he'd been planning to. For some time."

September sighs and lopes over to the bed, patting the space by his side. “Everything keeps coming back to her. We need to talk about Today. Tell me everything.” 

Monday curls his lip when September sits on his bed. "Ew, gross. Take a shower first at least. God."

But he sits down anyway. Like he’s uncoiling, a little with every word. "She was amazing. Fearless. Crazy."

"You admired her.”

“I did.”

“What did she do?”

“Everything. She was the best of all of us. The only problem was that she wouldn't listen to anyone."

Monday's staring through the far wall.

"It didn't take much for her dad to find an excuse. She had dreams far bigger than he was ready for. Once he realised that… there was an easy assignment she could never have made a mistake on. But she did."

His voice hits a grim note. "And the next day she was on the table."

"Fuck. I… shit." September lets out a long breath. "That's cruel. Poor girl. Did you… have to…"

_ Eat her, _ is the unspoken question.

"That was the day I learned all the stories were true."

Monday sighs.

"If it helps, I doubt Decade killed her himself. He was in Tartarus the whole time, I checked. I only know Yesterday took the fall for it. And he’s never been the same since.” 

"He seems happy where he is, back in Cafe Time."

"But you can tell how much of a demotion that is, right?”

"Well, I mean, yeah, but it's far away from that nutcase and that's a blessing if one ever socked me in the damn eye."

“Mhmm. He's happy to be there just like I was happy to be out." Monday sighs again, wistful this time. "Also, Fort's there."

"You ever met the guy? How did Decade know him?”

“Decade’s always interested in anyone who's willing to kill."

Another killer? September’s about to sigh, when he pauses and turns to Monday.

"That's why you ran away, isn’t it? He wanted you to kill. You couldn't. But you couldn't end up… on the table, either."

Monday's silent, which is answer enough in itself.

"I have this theory, you know,” Monday says softly, “Like how you can't really learn a new language after a certain age? Maybe that's the same with killing people."

September shifts closer, nudging Monday’s shoulder with his. "Monday, you can't be taught to kill. People can be  _ made _ to kill, sure.”

"Fort grew up in a pretty fucked up place. Even before Decade, he made a kill every two weeks. Hence Fortnight.” 

Monday folds, elbows on his knees. “Sometimes I envy people like that. Is that bad?"

September reaches over and clasps Monday's hand in his.

"It's not  _ bad _ bad. Tell me about that. The envy."

Monday hesitates.

"…Not caring so much.” Then, "No, that's not right. Knowing who to care about."

He's squeezing September's hand a little.

"Doing what it takes to protect them."

September stays very still. "It sounds like you've changed since the last time you thought about people like Fort.”

There's the slightest smile in his voice.

"Maybe. But it's the same either way. You'd think after so long in a place like this, you wouldn't care about  _ morals _ and  _ life _ so much. But I'm not a murderer."

It's a strange mix of regret and resolve.

Somehow, September almost seems to be expecting this. "That's right. You're not. You were a thief before you arrived and you'll stay a thief. That's the one language you taught yourself and now there's no room left for anything else. You're the most competent and infuriating goddamn thief I've ever fucking seen in all my knowledge of police work. But underneath that you're a person with principle, and you'll never stray from that."

Monday snorts. "You make me sound so deep."

But he's smiling.

The tension's draining from him, finally.

“Well,” he continues. “You should go shower. You’re covered in goop and frankly… you stink.”

“Thanks,” deadpans September. But he gets up and heads for the bathroom. 

"Wait, you're going to need clothes —" 

"I can just wash this uniform out."

No reply. September pauses in the doorway and turns back. Monday’s staring at a drawer, looking haunted.

"He left you some.”

A row of simple shirts and pants in dark colours, mostly leaning towards red and maroon. They look like the perfect size.

Monday looks at September — if he has any opinions, he keeps them to himself. September frowns at the crimson palettes, picking the least offending shade he can find, which is a deep maroon tending uncomfortably close to blood.

He holds it up. “How much trouble would I be in if I didn't wear this?"

"You wanna go nude? You could say it's religious."

“What, you  _ want _ me to play a religious nutcase?"

September throws the shirt at him and Monday snatches it deftly out of the air by the collar. 

"You don't have to be a  _ nutcase. _ Religion is a real thing! Don't be disrespectful."

Monday sobers quickly. 

"For real, though. You can test him if you want. But if I might give you a little advice.” Monday holds out the shirt again. “It may be wise to pick your battles."

 

A few minutes later the water stops and the door opens.

Monday doesn’t look up where he’s flopped over on the bed. "I didn't think I'd spend another night here,” he says absently, knowing September’s there listening. “I hoped. I dreamed. I  _ did _ dream about this place several times. It wasn't sweet."

“Well look,” comes the reply, "Bet you never dreamed of this."

Monday rolls over and can't help but  _ breathe _ at how September, dripping, towel slung around his neck, fills out that red shirt. Even if September doesn’t look happy about looking that good in red. 

He’s shivering a little, though. The shirt’s a bit damp.

"You're cold,” Monday finally finds his tongue to say. “Get under the blanket."

"Yeah, about that. I'm  _ freezing. _ Couldn't figure out how to work the hot water."

"Oh my  _ god, _ Septie." Monday reaches over and flings back the opposite corner of the blanket. "In. Now. And for the record, you gotta turn the knob two times anti-clockwise and then slowly the other way."

"Yep, of course, even the shower knobs are hell in Tartarus." September hesitates, but the plush navy sheets look far too warm. So he just slides in and tugs the quilt over himself.

"Don't worry, alright,” he mutters, voice immediately thickening as he settles under the covers. “We'll find a way."

"I know." Monday speaks like saying it will make him believe it.

Then, remembering — "The key. I hope you know I would never have taken it."

"I wasn't sure, actually. I’m kinda disappointed you didn’t.” He smiles a little. "I mean, you hate this place, and he's just screwing with you. You know that."

"You're disappointed he didn't shoot you in the head? Besides, leaving now would just put everything back at square one. It's not about leaving anymore. It's about taking him down."

Monday rolls over to face September.

"I… hope you're okay with that."

September studies Monday carefully, not speaking for a long time.

Finally, something seems to find its place inside him. September’s gaze is resolute when he says, "I'm staying."

"…Why?"

"To match your gamble."

"It's not your fight. It doesn't have to be."

"Nothing is ever a cop's fight." This time, September doesn't look at him. Not a trace of blame is in his words when he says, like it's stating the most obvious thing in the world, "You know that."

"Yeah, but this is a pretty extraordinary situation. No one would blame you."

September shakes his head. "I would never forgive myself if I abandoned you."

Monday's silent for a while, before he says, "Then know I will never abandon you."

September laughs once, softly. "Guess we're at a stalemate, then. We're stuck here." He turns to face Monday properly. "Thank you."

"For what?" Monday replies, smiling faintly. "I've been nothing but a pain. I should be thanking you."

"For trusting me,” September says, like Monday’s supposed to know this, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  His tone is dead serious — his work voice. "I promised to help, and I intend to keep that. We'll get to the bottom of this."

"Then you're welcome. And now, I need you to do me a favour."

Monday’s voice is firm now too. As firm as he can be, lying on his side on top of the covers with his limbs slightly curled. Blue eyes are hard and unyielding.

"Hang tight. Watch out for traps. And stay. Safe."

"Alright,” says September with a deep breath, “You stay safe yourself.” 

"I've managed for this long,” says Monday, with a brave smile, “I'll be alright."

  
  


When Monday returns with a white towel around his neck, he finds the bedroom lights dimmed and September with nothing but his head sticking out from beneath the covers.

Monday’s in blue — the very first time September has ever seen him in blue, actually. Usually it's full black; even his disguises are mostly neutral-toned or coloured in some other way. But now, it’s smooth navy silk embroidered with stars of fine gold thread.

September’s never liked silk pyjamas — they’re too fucking  _ shiny, _ who even does that, your eyes are supposed to be closed anyway, beds are for sleeping not for fashion shows — and indeed, Monday doesn't quite look comfortable. Even though he seems to remember being so.

He's blow-dried his hair in the bathroom and it’s now hanging loose around his shoulders, just slightly damp. He sits on the edge of the bed to wait for the last of his hair to dry off.

It’s the first time he’s ever been this vulnerable in front of September, if only the detective were awake enough to see it — 

September's breathing quietly, blanket pulled to his chin, eyes closed. He’s uncharacteristically sleepy, though Monday supposes months of bad nights and several days of travel by a kidnapper’s van doesn’t help for that.

"… 'm not asleep," he mumbles a few moments later. He cracks open an eye with effort, but he's so tired that Monday can't make any coherent thought from his expression. 

"Yes, you are," replies Monday, smiling indulgently. "This is a dream. You'll wake up and everything will be ok."

"…Yeah?" September's smiling a little now. "Then come lie down."

Monday pouts. "My hair's still wet. Few more minutes."

But he can't take his eyes off September.

He gets up and walks around the bed, to September's side. Sits on the carpet. He leans against the bed, his head tipping slightly over the edge.

After a few moments, he feels for September's hand.

He doesn't find it. Instead, September's hand brushes softly across the back of his hair, and then his ear. Fingers carding a lock of midnight-blue hair before stilling against his cheek.

Monday is completely, utterly still.

He slides his hand back off the bed. Rests his fingers lightly on September's.

"What are you doing?"

Those fingers curl around his, as firmly as someone half-asleep can make them.

"I knew you," September murmurs, so soft Monday almost doesn't hear, "even before I met you."

It's wistful. September has never sounded wistful before.

"What…?" And Monday, has never sounded so thrown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I remember another dream, a bit like this… It was dark. But you were so—” His thumb moves just slightly, as he makes a sound that is as garbled as it is undoubtedly a muffled slur of  _ Beautiful. _

Monday lets it happen.

It's familiar. It's guilty.

"You have lovely dreams," he says. "I'm honoured to be in them."

He slides a finger up the back of September's hand.

"Tell me about that dream."

For a long, long while, there's nothing. Just the sound of their breaths, sharing the silence.

And just as Monday decides his luck has run out,

"You're so good. Can't look away… Want you."

Monday's stunned, but he can't help quipping, "You… didn't sneak a nightcap or two before turning in, did you?"

September doesn't respond beyond the subtlest squeeze of his fingers.

Monday sighs. Subtly strokes his fingers up and down September's hand. "Well, then. I hope you'll keep dreaming of me."

But September's sound asleep, breathing deep and even. Certain that September won't feel it, Monday lightly kisses his palm. Then carefully replaces his hand on the mattress.

He hangs his towel on a chair and crawls in next to September.

Staring at his back. Wondering what would happen if he touched him again. Held him close.

But September would wake up eventually.

And then, the dream would end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - canninalism, emetophobia


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warnings in this chapter, see end of chapter for notes.

When Monday wakes up, he's staring at an empty bed.

September's not in the bathroom, not at the desk, nor anywhere. It takes him less than twenty seconds to case the room and then he just stands there, dread washing over him like ice, until someone knocks on the door for breakfast.

Monday knows he has no choice but to dress and head for the dining room.

Blood running icy, icy cold. He should have known that the dream was far from over.

And that it had always been a nightmare.

 

Sitting at the head of the table like he always has, is Decade. Breakfast is elaborate today, more food than enough for three.

After all, September's there too, sitting on the man's left.

He's alive, but perhaps only barely.

Alarmingly, September doesn't even react when Monday comes in. Just keeps staring at his empty plate, not moving a muscle. It probably hurts to do otherwise — he's marked all over by thin crimson lines, riddled with angry welts and bruises, eyes rimmed swollen and red.

Monday realises that September's sleeves are folded back and red, too, lines his hands and arms.

"Tomorrow," says Decade, sounding pleased. "Glad you could make it in time. Join us."

September lifts his head with effort. His eyes are blank.

Monday can't bring himself to smile at Decade in return. He knows that's a failure on his part. He walks slowly to the head of the table, staring always at Decade, because he can’t quite bear to look to the side.

"What did he do?"

As much remorse as he can muster. Like he's referring to a naughty dog, a puppy that didn't know any better.

Decade gestures airily at September, as if summarising every wrongdoing in one blithe hand motion.

"Of course, beyond being the general meddler in my plans, I needed to make sure he knew the severity of damaging things which are precious to me. I would have done it myself last night, but he seemed to show some recognition of his mistakes, so I deigned to show some mercy."

He offers a plate.

"Bacon?"

The briefest falter as Monday realises, _Dad hurt him for his sake._

But he makes it to the head of the table, casually walking around Decade’s chair.

"Won't you let me clean him up? He's in no state to stomach anything."

"He'll live,” remarks Decade, focusing on his food. “Did you know he fears seeing himself bleed? A rather strange tendency for a police officer. Three and Four roughed him up. It was quite a show."

Monday knows Three and Four. "I've no doubt about that."

He quietly walks to the other end of the table and puts a hand on September's sleeve. Trying his best to avoid the cuts. And at the touch, September lets out the faintest, tiniest sigh.

"Hey," he whispers as he guides September off the chair. "Let's go."

"Not staying for breakfast?" Decade asks casually, a sidelong glance aimed at Monday.

And despite Monday's hand on his arm, September stills.

Monday smiles sweetly.

"We'll be back, Daddy. Don't worry. Don't want to spoil the tablecloth, do we?"

He's placating Decade. September knows it.

Decade surely knows it.

But he still guides September firmly down the table to the door.

"What're you doing?" September leans heavily against him as they walk, breaths labored, favoring his bad leg again.

"Do you _want_ to be bleeding all day?" Monday hisses. "Unless this is some kind of exposure therapy, I find that hard to believe."

September laughs just once in reply.

Monday gets him to the end of the hall as fast as he can, which basically means going at about a turtle's pace instead of a snail's. When he gets there, he gently pushes September through the door and spares a single glance backwards, at Decade — Decade's occupying himself with the stack of pancakes on his plate. Evidently, whatever he does with September is not his concern —

And they're back in his room in no time at all.

First-aid kit out. Bandages at the ready. This time, Monday can't bear to let September do it himself.

He kneels in front of September sitting on the bed, gently dabbing a towel on his red-marbled arms.

"Change of plans," Monday mutters, as soon as September seems lucid enough to hear. "You are getting out of here. No questions. I am getting you out."

September's brow tenses with every touch. And as his breathing roughens again what slips out is a watery, "Sorry."

 _"Don't be._ Don't ever be." Monday's angry. But not at September — his touch remains soft as his voice grows harsher. "This is how abuse goes, I'm sure you know that. They make you think it's your fault."

September doesn't say anything, but Monday can tell he's clinging to every word. As if that alone can undo all his hurts.

And so Monday keeps talking. Because he knows, far too well.

"Listen to me. You don't deserve this. This will end.”

There's no white left on the towel.

“I'll get you out of here."

He finishes with September's arms and stands, moving up to the face. Studying the bruises blooming over every inch.

_Quite a show._

Around the damp, wadded cloth, Monday strokes September's cheek with a finger.

It’s still wet, sticky. Monday chokes back a breath, all but inaudible, as September tries for a smile — oh, he tries so hard — for him.

"I dreamed of you," he says abruptly, "Would've been harder without it."

Monday's stunned. "So you... thought of me?"

He smiles — he doesn't know what to say.

"I... I suppose it's an honour. Well. Not one that I would like to hold."

September just laughs. Faint. Soft. But genuine.

"I realised it midway through..." _the beating,_ the silence supplies. "In my dreams, you've never let me touch you."

"… Really?" Monday doesn't ask it like a question. "What do I do, then?"

"You're always running. And only if I'm lucky, I'll see your blue eyes just for a second. So.... thank you." A brief but uncomfortable pause. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

Monday's towel has reached September’s tired, weary eyes now.

He peers into them. Searching. Almost afraid to look.

September holds his gaze evenly, patiently, with neither judgement nor shame.

"Was last night... different?" says Monday.

"Last night you held my hand, very softly. You trusted yourself to me.”

"You must have been very trustable." Monday's gaze never wavers, as a rule. But it does now. "In your dream. That is."

September’s smiling wider now.

"I did like you said. Avoided the traps. Stayed safe. Didn't fight back.” A pause. “I think Decade was kinda disappointed."

"Was he? I'm proud of you." Monday looks pained. "Though I wonder… if you headbutted everyone in that room…"

September snickers. "I think I could take Four down myself. Three, maybe not. And I'd love to sock Decade in the nose."

With most of the blood cleaned off, Monday moves on to antiseptic and bandages. The part that stings. September sees and closes his eyes tight.

"Ah, shit."

"It's okay, darling," soothes Monday. "Just think about punching the hell out of Decade _extra_ hard."

  


"There we go." Monday’s smiling as he packs the first-aid kit away. More a way of reassuring September, making sure he’s okay. "Sorry for being fussy, sweetie. Three always cleans her knives, but Four doesn't."

September sighs, exhausted. "Monday... Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

Now that Monday’s finished with the most pressing issue, he can start to piece things together — the bed they’re on has the bedclothes flung back on both sides.

Maybe they’d dragged him out. No. They would have drugged him, to not make a noise.

And Monday remembers how sluggish September had been last night, how out of sorts, how unusually loose-lipped… the last time he’d behaved like this, alcohol was running in his veins and Monday really should’ve known, it couldn’t just have been exhaustion, or lack of sleep—

Had Decade planned to have September drugged no matter what? Had September’s torture been inevitable, no matter the cards he played, no matter how much of a good boy he was for his father?

What would it take to save his cop?

"You should lie down,” Monday says, to distract himself. "He won't expect us back, I'm sure. And I imagine you’re tired."

Monday helps him down, but September can't quite bite back a whimper when the movement jolts one of his deep bruises. Though he allows himself to relax at last.

Cracks a smile. "There. We did it. I'll be on my feet again in no time."

"That's right. You did it. And we'll get you out of here, I promise."

September’s smile fades a little. "Don't do anything rash. We're getting out together, okay?"

"Mm."

Monday lies down next to September, putting his hands behind his head. Digging his fingers into his scalp.

"Maybe we could just go back to sleep." He sighs. "But the shipment's coming in soon… I don't know if I want to be there."

"You don't have to go." September, despite himself, reaches for Monday's hand.

Monday lets him take it. Trying not to look at the marks all over his fingers.

And despite it all Monday smiles, weakly.

"Is this a dream, then, officer? You're touching me again."

"… Do you want it to be a dream?"

"Dreams can be nice... But they always end." Monday breathes out slowly. "If I go for the shipment you'll be alone again. Who knows what'll happen then."

"I'll be fine. I think Decade's done with me, at least for now."

September frowns, his thumb drifting absently over Monday’s knuckles.

"I think Four — the one with the dirty knives, Four? Yeah, him — he told Three something, I might’ve misheard, I can’t be sure…" September breathes shakily. "Something about a Ten? Ten’s accompanying the shipment, said something, something like she's been dying to meet you. I don’t think he likes Ten very much."

Monday stares at the ceiling. "Ten, huh."

He's silent for a while.

"Do you know what happens at those shipments? You sure you want me... doing that again?"

September's grip tightens on Monday's hand.

"Monday, I— this isn't my call to make. It's yours. I would never ask you to do something you didn't want to. But we're out of options, and I…" he actually sounds guilty. "I think it'd help."

"… Mm."

Monday gets up swiftly, leaving September's hand behind. “That settles it, then.”

“Monday—”

"It’s fine. Just gathering some intel, right? If I’m getting your parlance right." He attempts a smile. “Guess it’s my turn to play at a cop.”

“Ha,” September smiles. “You’d make a shitty cop.”

“Excuse you! I’d be absolutely stellar and you know it.” Monday laughs. “Now if there’s nothing else I’m going to dismiss myself, sir.”

 

Monday returns from the bathroom in a buttoned black shirt and pants. He often wears full black, especially while running from police officers. But this is different.

With tight buttons at the wrist, a high waist, and neatly ironed creases, the clothes are clearly not meant for stealth or speed.

They're impersonal. Anonymous.

It's the first time September has seen Monday in clothes like this. Businesslike, not showy in the slightest, like the gold-rimmed mask which feels like nothing more than a blurry memory now — September can't decide if the outfit suits him.

Monday looks at September and reads his expression instantly.

"Septie, I'm okay. I'm just… preparing myself.” He smiles. “It's… been a while."

September has slowly learned to recognise the tiny ways his discomfort shows — the stiffness in his limbs, the set in his jaw.

"I wouldn't ask this of you if there were another way," September says immediately. "I promise, when this is over, I'll track down those children and make sure they get home."

"Hey, you don’t have to feel bad." Monday’s solemn. “I'll do whatever it takes. I don't exactly have the right to _morally object_ to anything.”

There's no edge to his words, only sadness.

Regret.

September's not convinced. He tries to sit up, which is a bad idea, but he’s doing it anyway — "Monday. This doesn't make you a bad person. This isn’t your karma or whatever. We're trying to survive, not plan for the next enlightenment."

"I know. Thank you."

There's a flash of guilt on Monday’s face.

"This is a horrible thing for me to say… but I'm glad you're here.” He waves it off quickly. “Not that I'm actually happy about it, of course! But still.”

His throat bobs.

“If you weren't here I don't know what I'd do. What I'd be doing right now."

September does not expect to hear this.

He just… stares. Not quite sure how to respond.

Finally, "I’m sure this is a fever dream. Is this a fever dream?"

Monday can’t help it, he’s breaking into a smile. "Yes, very much so."

September inhales loudly. "What the fuck."

"Right? Amazing what long stretches of physical trauma will do to your brain."

He's smiling still, smiling like he's about to cry and laugh at the same time.

"Sleep it off, Septie,” he says, and he makes sure to wait till September’s eyes flutter shut and his breathing evens out, rattling only slightly with pain, before he slips out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: (Implied) torture, implied violence, light descriptions of wounds


	24. Chapter 24

Site Troy is, by all definitions of container shipping sites, nondescript. It’s on the pier furthest from the loading and docking bays, and always reeking of refrozen seafood no matter what the janitors do, like it’s got its own curse — one of those warehouses that deckhands never give a second glance.

Everyone expects these dirty little things to happen in the dead of night, when there are less eyes to see scrambling children or the flash of bright clothes disappearing behind aluminum. But putting things in plain sight sometimes was the best way to keep things hidden.

It’s almost funny, if you don’t think about it too hard.

Monday arrives with a while to spare. Ten's people are already in position to facilitate the handover. All but one of the shipping containers will contain processed goods, metal tools, more seafood. 

The odd container out is #13.

Count them, check the quality, and then repackage them. Make sure the container's clean of food and waste. Try not to think about how young they are, or how scared.

You get used to it.

Ten's by the side, checking her watch. Always obsessed with punctuality, this woman. She’s cut her hair too — probably the constant sea breeze, it gets really cold out here — he can't make out her expression through her bangs. Still, she seems tense.

"Ten minutes early! Just the way you like it, Ten."

Monday smiles wide and unfettered. When Ten’s on these shifts with him, it makes everything just a little more bearable. For a moment it’s like he never left — back when he never realised how awful this all was, never knew how he was used, never cared about the human bones his father built his kingdom upon — he smiles like Decade’s brightest and best.

Ten almost drops her PDA. A myriad of emotions pass across those brown eyes — recognition, shock, confusion. And finally, disappointment. It doesn't leave, not fully, as she turns to greet him.

"Tomorrow? You sorry bastard."

She knows he isn't here by his choosing. One look at his uniform and she leads him to the nearby warehouse, hands him what he needs: torch, baton, pistol. 

"What happened to your heart of gold?"

_ Why are you back? — And  _ here,  _ of all places? _

"Oh, you know. Traded it in for hard cash and a lifetime supply of medium-rare steak."

"Always knew you were a damn thief the moment I saw you,” Ten says.

Monday’s laugh dies immediately. "What  _ do _ you think happened, Ten?"

“I don’t think, I know damn well enough,” Ten replies. “I risked my flesh for you and you fucked it up.”

No anger, just fact. Monday doesn’t reply to that, and Ten doesn’t say anything more.

Wind whips across the pier as they walk back to the container. Monday's eyes drift over the familiar ridges, the  _ 13 _ painted bright and bold on the side.

"How many?"

"Sixty. Gonna be a ball of tears. Whichever bozo thought they could fit is a straight leech. But whatevs. Bring em to box 4 and we'll sort the rest out."

They watch the cargo ship pull in and the cranes begin to unload the containers. 

Ten quirks an eyebrow. "So how was it? Life beyond hell."

"Hmm. Became a  _ very _ wanted criminal. I mean, that's not out of the ordinary, but a  _ publicly _ wanted one. That's a new feeling."

His words are absent — his eyes follow container no. 13.

"Apart from that… Did some sightseeing. Stole a ham. Nearly brought down the drug ring. Kissed a cop."

"What? Damn, boy! You kissed a—"

“By the way, Decade doesn't  _ really _ know I'm here. Maybe we could...?"

_ "Excuse me? _ You came out here without telling Decade? Fucker!"

She breathes deep.

"Motherfucker!" 

Reins herself in. Then, speaks more calmly.

"You flippant, horse-brained,  _ no-good _ motherfucker, now I gotta keep you happy so I won’t get  _ tabled. _ Got half my damn mind on chucking you in a crate and sending you back to Tartarus on a motorcycle."

Ten jabs a finger at him and he holds his hands up in mock surrender. And beams. “No nonsense from me, I promise! Just put in a good word for me, won’t you?”

She shoves him lightly on the shoulder, the way she used to. She’s older and more weathered now, but maybe some things just never change. 

“Next time lead with that,” she grumbles, typing on her PDA. No doubt to report back to Decade. 

“I was just giving you an honest update about my love life. Thought you’d be interested, is all.”

Yeah, she’s  _ always _ interested, even with the sour look she’s giving him.

“So,” she says, “A  _ uniform, _ huh? Tell me about him.”

“Hey, I never said it was a guy cop. But as it happens…” Monday makes a face — busted. "I guess it takes one to know one?"

“Look, you’re just about as straight as overcooked linguini, a’ight, you ain’t fooling nobody. Either way,” Ten declares, “I stand by what I told you years ago: girls fuck better."

Monday smirks — it's a defence mechanism.

"Lemme guess,” Ten goes on, pulling the zip up on her windbreaker a little higher, “You hooked him up in one of those fancy bars. Got him drunk. Sucked face. Spent years running rings ‘round him. Got your ugly mug splashed pretty on the big screens. And got nabbed."

"Um, kiiiinda? Maybe you're like, twenty percent of the way there — There was definitely alcohol involved! Getting my mug splashed everywhere was  _ awesome. _ And I ran through a farmer's market! There was a  _ cow." _

Monday's manner is free and comfortable. He likes Ten. One could almost say he missed her.

His eyes keep straying to Box 13. Four minutes left.

"Cop and I were getting pretty close to taking down the holdings, actually.”

"Taking down Calen? The whole operation? You're pissing me," says Ten with pleasant surprise. "Thought the powder rings were impenetrable. You had a hand in it, didn't you. Motherfucker."

“Of course not, I’m allergic to shellfish! And rest assured, your efforts almost paid off."

“Almost,” echoes Ten.

"Yeah, well…" Monday sighs. "Decade switched out his eleven."

"Pemberton? The big One-Oh picks on him 'cause he never had much of a spine, but I ain't never seen a man with more goddamn foresight and patience. At least he finally proved his worth."

Monday nods. "Well, he got his first taste of FBI yesterday. I suppose Decade punishes those worthy of punishment."

"Oh no," Ten murmurs with real sympathy. "Tasting sessions aren't something I'd wish on my worst enemy."

She looks over at Monday, nudging a scrawny elbow against him. 

"So tell me 'bout that cop, I'll give you directions to a dairy farm twenty miles out. Best milk you'll find in all your reincarnations. Chase some hens. Make fancy vegan tofu. Steal one of those tiny teacup piggies. Nail the uniform in a barn. Perfect date, huh?”

"Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the cop came down here with me, so if you—"

Ten gasps and says once more, with more feeling, "Oh  _ no. _ He's here? In  _ Tartarus?” _

Ten studies him quietly, a storm of her own brewing behind her gaze.

"Lemme tell you something, 'Morrow. The last uniform in here was made an example of. It couldn't have been more than fifteen years ago, I think. Decade loves ’em subservient,  he'll break ‘em. They’ll be unrecognisable at the end of it all. By the time Decade was done with him, he was begging to be eaten."

“I know.” Monday stares straight ahead. “He didn’t last long.”

"Yeah, ‘cos I shot him,” Ten retorts. And adds, “by accident." though the way she says it, it sounds like she'd wanted to do it for a long time. “Your cop. How is he?”

Monday tries not to sigh. "The dairy farm might have to wait till, um, his arms stop scabbing over." 

"I'm guessing big boss set Three and Four on your boy. Honestly, not a good sign. You gotta get him outta there or this is the last place he'll see."

Box 13 finally is released from the crane. Ten's people move to unlock it. Another crate is already ready and waiting.

Ten strides ahead. "Come on. Let's get this over and done with."

Monday has been told, time and time again, not to look at their faces.

It helps, he's been told. But not as much for the person who spirited those same children off the streets, into these shuffling lines. At least this time, he doesn't know any of the kids. So it's easier to keep his gaze fixed downwards, pretend that he himself doesn't have a face to speak of.

Get it over and done with.

"You know, Ten, I remember that cop pretty well."

(First child has soft brown hair and soft pale skin.)

"Think it was my first year in the house? Couldn't be much later."

(Second child has coarse skin and thick fingers. The child will go someplace else.)

"Rest assured, getting mine out is my first priority."

(Third child is a little too scrawny. Fourth child is crying. It's getting loud. Monday is always the one to pacify the children, he knows that.)

"Good. You do that." 

She extends her baton and raps it against the container, making some of the kids jump. "What'd I tell you kids? Quick feet and shut mouths. We'll bring you food after the transfer. Burgers sound good? Yeah? Some of them chicken or beef ones and a Mars bar for dessert."

She glances over at Monday, just making sure he’s okay. Monday nods, and Ten nods back. Then she starts guiding the first few kids to their respective places.

After Ten's shout, the child Monday's looking at has clapped his hands over his mouth. But he can't hide those fat tears falling from his eyes, or how he's shaking from fear. He meets Monday's eyes, a desperate plea for mercy, and Monday realises that what he thought were black eyes are just the slightest hint maroon, that he has an uncannily narrow face like the one Monday touched with his own hand.

And Monday's hand is already on his shoulder.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay." He squeezes gently. Rubs up and down the kid's arm. "You miss your mom, right? You'll see her soon, don't worry."

It's blatant lies. But no worse than what's already been done to them.

The kid sniffs and leans into Monday's palm. Monday's obviously the kindest person he's talked to in days — maybe even weeks. "S-Someone said we're gonna leave the country. I don't wanna go. I just w-wanna go h-home. It's so cold in the box. And I'm so hungry."

"They didn't give you jackets? There must be some mistake. I'll talk to someone, alright? The nice lady over there'll bring you some lunch. And you'll get home in no time."

He smiles. It's a perfect smile, and the kid’s already starting to relax.

"I promise."

The little boy gives Monday a shaky nod. Hiccups and whispers, "Okay."

Monday eases him back into the queue without any more issue. Ten's watching him with her usual unreadable expression.

She hates this as much as he does.

And so it goes, for a good full hour, sorting kids into different containers and rooms. He’s working through the last handful when Ten finally comes back to him. 

"Everything ok? Any of ’em injured? Sick?"

"Fifty-three. Thirty-six. They’ve got bruises. Probably a few days old, so… it could be from our side."

Ten frowns. "I'll tell my guys to watch it. Thanks."

Monday seems to be coming out of a daze. Checking papers, adjusting his belt. Ten studies him intently.

“You are one lucky sumbitch,” she says eventually. "Eleven's prepared to throw in his lot for you, so I gotta find new strings to pull."

"Eleven?” Monday murmurs. “What did he do?"

"Got in touch with me yesterday, asked something real strange. Asked if you knew your way round children. I tell him yes, and he says I gotta bow you out no questions asked."

Ten stares expectantly. "Says you'll know why."

Monday's silent for a while.

"He's got one. A kid. A real one, I mean. Like, his."

Ten slaps a hand to her forehead.  _ "Right. _ Just when I thought Eleven was a smart one, he goes and does something  _ not. _ That imbecile."

“No, I… Eleven hasn’t been with Decade for long, the kid’s his collateral. Has to be.” 

"So what, he dragged you all the way out here, then changed his mind and wants you to play  _ nanny on the run _ with his kid?”

"…No.” Monday’s surer this time, as what Ven wants from him sinks in. “I guess he finally realised this is no place for children." 

Monday falls silent, and Ten looks again at the last of the kids filtering into the different containers. 

"Anyway, it's not me he's thinking about,” Monday adds, he knows Ten gets it, “It's the cop. Eleven likes him.”

"Guess Eleven was just wet behind the ears after all," says Ten contemplatively. "So escape, then what? Not like Decade's gonna throw his guns down and let you run free.” 

"Honestly, Ten? Too busy trying to keep my cop alive to draw up the schematics."

He sighs.

"I brought the FBI to Syracuse. And from the looks of it, Decade's arm in the police can't be trusted anymore. So there's a slightly higher chance the investigation won't fizzle out like all the others. If we could get the FBI to Tartarus…” 

Ten barks out a laugh. "Hey, kid, Tartarus has been protected for literal decades. Your pops is smart. An actual gargoyle — I’m still waiting on the day he’ll sprout actual horns — Syracuse would've spooked him, he'll be ready. Eleven may be tryna salvage his pieces but it don't mean nothing if he still shits himself in front of the boss."

"I know. I always knew taking down Tartarus was a 'live or die trying' sort of thing. Emphasis on the 'die trying'."

Monday smirks a little. “I promise, I didn't plan for most of this."

Ten makes a vague noise of acknowledgement.

"Y'know what? Ask your cop — if I know anything about your pops, he keeps his enemies close enough to be his dinner. He brought your cop to Tartarus. He’s keeping him alive. And it’s way harder keeping a piece alive than dead. There’s gotta be a reason why."

"It's so I wouldn't be  _ lonely."  _ There's a bitter edge to Monday’s voice. Guilt. "He doesn't deserve this."

Ten sighs, then says, not unkindly, "Sure he don't. But don't everyone deserve a right old good life. Monsters like us ain't got place for guilt, Morrow. We only got time and desperation and planning."

When Monday doesn’t reply, Ten mercifully moves the conversation along.

"Anyway, the guy you picked? He's probably suave and charming like yourself, right? A damn shame I hate Tartarus too much to swing by and see him."

"Suave and charming?" Monday scoffs. "He couldn't talk his way around a pile of rocks. Not worth the trip. 1.5 stars."

Ten raises an unimpressed eyebrow, gesturing like  _ what the actual fuck, Morrow. _ “So outwitting a pebble’s your idea of fun on the run? You for real?”

Monday sighs — he's embarrassed. 

"It's cute."

"Oh my fucking  _ lord,” _ snorts Ten. “You're  _ in love _ with him. Congratulations. You  _ fucked up." _

_ "I just said it's cute."  _ Monday looks pained.

"No, you're totally completely utterly head over heels for your drunk cop and let him stick his tongue in your throat. Fuck. Never thought I'd see the goddamn day. A mafia kid  _ losing his cool _ for a 1.5-star fuzz with no brain."

"He  _ has _ a brain, he just doesn't talk good. He's smart enough."

“Sure man, whatever.” Ten gestures like she's trying to brush off his cooties. "So what's that like, huh? He bring you flowers or just photos of severed fingers? You got a thing for that, hun?"

" _ Hey,  _ we haven't even been on our first date yet. A passing infatuation, really. And he'll go to college on a basketball scholarship and I'll stay in my quaint little hometown pouring coffees and picking pockets."

He sounds a little too serious for this joke.

"Come on, Morrow. You can bring the FBI to Syracuse, but you’re gonna stay pining for him from a distance? Man up.  _ Man. Up.” _

"There's no point, Ten. Like you said.” Monday turns away, his eyes on the containers scattered around them, as their doors shutter up and it’s like nothing bad ever happened at all. “Monsters like us don’t have business shacking up with good people."

Ten stares. Then sighs. "Well, whatever floats your goddamn boat. All I'm saying is, good things don't come easy. When opportunities finally drop into your lap in the form of guys who make out good, you'd better kiss ‘em so hard their soul leaves their body. And, y'know, maybe let them feel appreciated or whatever. And  _ then _ when you drop him off safely you can disappear and be out of his life forever."

Monday stays silent. The doors of the last crate close and Ten clears her throat. 

"So do you wanna get on Eleven's deal or no? I wanna know if I gotta start sending you pampers."

"I'm getting him out,” Monday says with no hesitation. "Anyway, the cop wants kids, so I'm sure he can deal."

"Great! Knock him up. Hitch a kid to to him and he'll have to stay with you. Good plan."

She sobers up. 

"But I gotchu. I'll do all I can, you have my honor."

"Thank you," Monday exhales. Fixes her with a look. "I owe you."

"Everyone owes me, get in line." 

"And that's why," replies Monday with a smile, "you'd be a better Decade than either of us would ever be."

"Me? A Decade? An insult! He's  _ awful.” _ Ten wrinkles her nose, arms on her hips. 

She flicks her thumb at the main road. 

"Anyway, I've just got paperwork left, you're done here. Crew's leaving in ten. Might wanna go with."

Monday nods, but doesn’t move.

"You got anywhere to go? If Tartarus falls?"

Ten snorts. "Tartarus ain't falling. I'm stuck here. Too much at stake. I go down with Decade. That’s why I can get you out but not keep you safe. Wanna stay in the old man’s good books, y’know." Somehow, when she says it, there's no bitterness at all. She's clearly made her peace with it. "Eh. Plenty worse ways to go. Like ending up on fine china."

"Amen to that… But forgive me if I don't quite believe you. You don't strike me as the sort with a deathwish, Ten." Monday smiles a little. "If anything's left when the smoke clears, I feel like it'd be you."

"Damn. I'll take that bet." Ten grins. "Coming from you that is one helluva compliment."

"Thanks, Ten."

He walks to the main road, where the car he took from Tartarus is waiting. Its driver watching, earpiece coiled around one lobe and down the neck. He turns around.

"Say, Ten. Decade's new favourite. Seven—"

“You want tips?” Ten says, voice easily carrying over from where she’s standing at the threshold of the warehouse door. 

“Seven,” she says, “is a misplay.”

Ten's reply is plain, but Monday can tell it's a reply forged after careful deliberation. Nonchalant, but also deadly.

"After all these years as the Big Bad’s right hand man, doing his dirty work night and day, kissing his ass — What does he do to loyal, cunning, careful Braxten Primmer? Of course,  _ shaft her! _ Reduce her to another nobody on a godforsaken jetty."

It’s the first time he’s seen Ten's eyes with such a predatory glint.

“Your father’s getting antsy,” she says airily. “Antsy enough that he’s forgoing his most reliable pieces for a wildcard to match his son.”  

"Oh, man. I'm honestly kinda proud." Monday's smile is the sort you wear on the gallows. "A wildcard, huh. Doesn't exactly make me feel better about my chances."

Ten's smile mirrors Monday's. "You can ask Seven how he nabbed my seat. That diseased coon  _ loves _ retelling it, rubs it in my face every chance he gets."

"We’ll see. I've had more than enough adventure." He walks away, hand raised in goodbye. "Nice seeing you, Ten. Till we meet again."

Ten laughs, calls out after him, "Get lost, Tomorrow. For god’s sake just start planning  _ something. _ And don't wait up for me. When the time comes, you'll know it."

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be. But I want the cop too.” 

That makes Monday turn. “Aww, Ten! If you want a meeting with him you could just say so—”

“I’m serious, Morrow.”

Monday stills. He’s never heard Ten’s voice this hard.

“Get your boy out alive.”


	25. Chapter 25

It takes a few hours for the car to return. Monday's rather amused to find no one at the porch to receive him, and the corridors empty as he walks along them. But that's just how Tartarus is: full of things, devoid of soul.

The quiet becomes more unnerving the deeper he goes. When he opens the door to his room he's almost scared that September won't be there.

But he is — and so deep asleep he doesn't stir.

No worse than how he was when Monday left earlier.

So Monday steps in and shuts the door behind him. On the nightstand there’s a half-empty cup of water and a strip of painkillers, two of the capsules empty.

But Monday hadn't brought those in, which means they had to be a gift.

_Take care of my things, and I'll take care of yours._

Monday regards them with a certain kind of despair. He knows what they mean — his efforts to placate Decade are working. But he can't stop thinking about that crying boy. Many children cried that afternoon. That boy cried the loudest.

His boy lies in bed, scabbed over and sleeping.

Monday reaches for the doorknob. It's dinnertime soon. He’ll have to filch some food off the cooks, making sure his father’s willfully none the wiser.

He's not letting September set foot in that dining hall again.

 

When Monday returns with their dinner on a tray he’s as silent as he’s always been. So it’s a surprise when September jolts upright, mottled knuckles clenched white around the sheets, eyes darting wildly until they settle on him.

It’s not difficult to guess why. The smell of pan-fried bacon and Tartarus’ favorite brand of maple syrup always hangs around for hours — surely scorched into his memory. So food is the last thing September wants right now.

Monday doesn’t move.

Not until the edge fades from September’s gaze. Then he tilts the tray for him to see.

“Got you some chicken parmesan,” he says, like he’s not struggling around a knot in his throat, “Actual chicken, I swear. You need protein.”

"All that way for chicken parmesan?” September’s voice is rough with sleep. “You could've picked up some foie gras, or something equally expensive."

September grins — it's meant to be a joke. Even if it's a shitty one.

Monday strides forward and sets the tray down on the bed. "Next time, darling. I'll get you a five-course meal. I could even steal another ham, if you’re interested—"

 _“No stealing,”_ says September immediately, which makes Monday’s smile turn genuine for the first time. “But thanks. For looking out for me."

He reaches out for another two pills from the nightstand. Swallows them.

"And don't look at me like that,” he goes on, eyes on his glass, “I'm just a little bruised up, not handicapped. I could probably still walk—"

Monday gives him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare try.”

September just laughs softly, as much as he can. Monday hands September his plate along with the cutlery, serviette, the packet of orange juice.

“Pulpless?” asks September.

“Hear it ruins the old man’s teeth,” Monday grins.

September huffs out what must be another laugh. "So, the shipment. Did you make it in time?”

“Of course. I’m never late.” Monday shuffles over carefully and curls his legs under him, leaning close.

He immediately begins to eat. September notices, it’s quite difficult to not — Monday eats like it's a chore, an item to check off the list. Quite a contrast from Ben Dover, scarfing down that sandwich.

“I met a friend,” he says, like an afterthought.

“Oh god,” September pauses, fork midway to his mouth. “Please tell me you didn’t get into more trouble, I can only deal with one thief at a time.”

"No need to worry, Septie. Thieving is beneath her. And no, I was perfect. I’m _always_ perfect."

September just regards him curiously. _A friend? Here in Tartarus?_

"Braxten Primmer,” Monday volunteers, “One of Decade's most prized. And within his kingdom, she's built an empire of favours."

September repeats the name to himself under his breath, over and over, until it hits. "One of Decade's lieutenants. So she’s Ten, huh? What did she want from you?"

"Actually, it's what Ven wants from us.” Monday looks solemn as September’s face falls. “I don't know what he offered her, but for some reason she's willing to get us out for his sake."

 _Ven._ September's walls slam back up. It's written all over his face he still doesn't trust any of this. He doesn't know if he can trust Braxten. Hell, he doesn't even know if he can trust Ven.

"Braxten," he says at last. "She's your _friend?_ An honest friend?"

"You wouldn't know me if not for her,” says Monday, nibbling on a leaf of lettuce.

September takes a breath. “She got you out the first time."

Monday nods. “She wants what we want. That much I know for sure."

September sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Monday, look, I trust you, but Decade's lieutenants are _nutcases._ What's the catch?"

Monday stares at him.

"You'll have to become a father."

September stares back.

"I have to sleep with Braxten?!”

"Septie, no—”

“What the fuck _,_ Monday! That's — that's _crazy!_ I don't even know her! I mean sure, kids are kinda cute but I'm. Just. _Not ready_ to have kids—"

 _“Oh my GOD.”_  Monday kneads his temples as September shuts up at last. "I mean Evelyn. Ven's daughter."

Some of the confusion clears away. _Evelyn._ The little baby with an adorable chubby face and a heart-melting smile.

September sighs glumly, poking his food. "So Ven betrayed me, and now he's going to betray Decade so he can keep his daughter safe. Not sure how to feel about that... but I can't blame him. I know he's a good guy."

Monday huffs. "You just said all of Decade's lieutenants are nutcases. Why trust him over the rest?"

"I don't trust him. I told you. I'll do whatever it takes to get us out of here and take Decade down. Baby included."

September gives Monday a look and Monday just blinks back, innocent as can be.

"And I don't suppose you'll help me at all with her," he teases.

He isn’t expecting Monday to hesitate. "I hope you'll understand that kids… aren't really my thing."

“What’s wrong with kids? They’re fun! Lots of crying and poop, what’s not to like. And how hard can taking care of a baby be."

"It's one of the hardest things a human could ever do,” Monday counters immediately. “Why do you think orphanages exist?"

September sobers — Monday realises he’s joking again. "I _know,_ Monday. Raising another human being is tough. But she'll either be raised under Decade's shadow, or I could try protecting her and then helping her find another family later on. This is something I _won’t_ half-ass even if it cost me."

Monday's silent. Polishes off his plate with a last few scrapes of his fork. He can feel September’s gaze weighing heavy on him.

"It's… a lot. A lot not to half-ass.” He puts the fork down. "But hey, better than being stuck here."

They finish the rest of their food in silence and September packs it back on the tray. Monday extends his arm to balance it all on his nightstand and then sprawls right back out, dirty socks and all.

September says, "So now what? We just sit around and wait for Braxten's extraction, then head on over to Ven's place and kidnap his baby?” He snorts. "Hey Paul, hey Mina. I'm back. And look, I got a souvenir!"

"Hey, they can tell her more dinosaur facts.” Monday grins, just briefly. _"Sitting around_ sounds easy, but it really won’t. We don't know how long it'll take."

"Yeah, but there's no choice. We gotta make it happen.”

Monday doesn’t reply to that. September watches him trace patterns in the constellations on the ceiling with his eyes.

”You okay? You’re…  antsy.” Monday isn’t the kind to be that. Antsy. So he takes a wild guess. “What happened with the shipment?"

"The usual."

Monday stares at nothing.

"…They've stopped giving them jackets."

September’s quiet for a while, but it doesn’t take much to put two and two together. They come in by boat, it must get cold out there. "It's not your fault, Monday. You can't save everyone."

"It's not about fault, really." For once, Monday’s lost for words. "I just hate it."

What do you even say in response to something like that? The layers and layers of guilt and self-loathing, hewn one on top of another —

September knows nothing will come close. He just carefully places his hand on Monday’s. Hoping Monday knows this is his meagre attempt at comfort.

Monday doesn't move away, but doesn't grasp his hand either.

"Hey, don't worry about me.” His voice is soft — it’s hiding a tremble. “You were right, after all. It was useful."

“No,” says September. He’s affronted. “You're my friend and I care about you."

He takes both their hands and grips them tight — Monday’s gaze jolts, he can’t help himself, down to their hands and he needs to force himself to look up again, where September’s gaze will be waiting —

But the cop doesn’t even notice. He’s pulling away, settling back down against his pillows. "I'll work twice as hard to bust the ring, promise. For now I'm just gonna get better, and hang around — maybe grab a bunch of evidence or two to bring back to the precinct."

When Monday doesn’t say anything, September holds one arm out and angles it towards him. "Look. I don't know what's in the cream you used, but it's already scabbing over. I'll be good to go in a couple days."

Finally Monday inspects September’s proffered arm with a dramatic squint, smiling lightly. "Proud of you, officer. But until then, rest. As much as you can."

He scoots up a little so he’s sitting with his pillow against the headboard, fluffing up around his head. He seems tired too. September notices, rather belatedly, that his shirt’s untucked and his cuffs undone. And his hair’s coming a little loose.

"You know," Monday says to the ceiling, "friends don't go around squeezing each other's hands all the time."

September's face starts pinking, right on cue.

He takes a deep breath. Then begins eloquently, like he's prepared his response for a long time —

"Uh." Clears his throat. "Yeah, I guess not."

The tension in the room is suddenly stifling.

"I'm sorry,” he says abruptly. “For doing that. It’s not fair to you. Just—” He clears his throat again. “Just know that I... value you. No matter what. We'll get out of here," he repeats again, more firmly this time, like he can make it come true. "Somehow."

"I know."

Monday doesn't look at September. He doesn't look at anything.

His hands softly crumpling the bottom of his shirt, from where it was tucked in not long ago.

"Just—" Monday breathes, shuddering. "I told you, I never really thought about it. What happens... after. Makes it easier to do what has to be done."

"I think I understand. I don't blame you, if you're wondering. I really don't—"

“And being Evelyn’s mommy... it’s quite a leap to think about.”

“What — I never —”

“I know,” Monday smiles again, just a little. “I know.”

But he’s still not looking up. September watches as his face seems to fight with itself, too many emotions radiating off him to read.

Slowly, gently, Monday reaches out for September's hand and squeezes it. Until it's not so gentle anymore. Until it's the hand of a dangling boy at the edge of a cliff.

September doesn't move. Just draws a breath. And takes Monday's expression in — _It hurts. You deserve better. I was foolish to think I could right all these wrongs, why did I, why —_ Maybe all of it. Or none of it.

September just says, "Thank you." And runs his scarred thumb along Monday's knuckles.

His touch is so gentle.

Monday says nothing. Allows September’s touch. Tries to relax, but with every stroke, tenses even more.

"If it helps," September says at last. "It's okay to not know what to think. I'm glad you're here too."

The breath stills in Monday’s throat.

They’re here.

For now. Despite it all.

They’re both _here_ —

“Monday? Are you okay?”

— and he swings himself over September and kisses the cop on the lips.

It's not much different from the first time, long ago, in Pewter Mall before the very first play of the game.

Except now, Monday stays —

_because this could be all they have left._

There's only time for half a surprised sound from September before Monday swallows it up. The cop’s stiff and tense, barely daring to breathe, but Monday fists a hand in September’s collar and makes him _give —_ drags him in as September’s fingers find the back of his head at last, (right where it belongs), sliding through his hair and bringing Monday closer, _closer._

It feels so good. September, reciprocating, rising to meet him like bushfire, like a hunting dog at the end of its leash, and Monday can feel every fibre of September’s being screaming —

_His thief, finally his._

Yes, thinks Monday, finally.

Monday leans into his cop but he doesn’t melt, not quite, his whole body charged with purpose and desperation because he wants more, he _needs_ _more_ before it’s too late _._ And it’s everything he ever wanted — just this, his teeth on September’s lips, his hands on September’s skin, sliding up from the chest to caress September's cheek and jaw and neck still marbled with bruising.

It’s so hard to exercise any amount of self restraint at this point but the last thing Monday ever wants is to hurt him, even as September tugs him close, pulls him in, asking, pleading, begging —

I know, thinks Monday, I know.

They pull apart.

Their gasps hang in the little air between them. Monday only presses closer, like he's trying to disappear, as September lets his hand ghost across Monday's slight shoulders, his arched back, the curve of his waist —

How different is this touch between a cop at the end of the line and his disappearing riddling thief.

There’s sweat prickling at his collar. All at once he's a virgin on prom night — a lover hungry for more — a scared little boy.

"I thought," he whispers, as September’s pulse thrums rapid against his palm, "I might never get the chance again."

"... Again?"

Monday's eyes burn like blue fire; roil like the ocean.

 _It didn’t have to be you_ — he’d told September in the dark interior of a prisoner van, but now under the gentle glow of plastic stars and dredges of sunlight soaking violet through the curtains all he can think is — _it didn’t have to be you but here we are, I could be a child on the wrong side of that box, and you could be that cop shot dead in the bowels of this very house, and maybe if I’d been less selfish we would have never met but here we are, darling, here we are —_

"It doesn't matter."

He only kisses September again.

"Nothing matters.”

And again.

“Only now."

They kiss like old flames — hungry, familiar, intimate, blue and red searing hot with every brush of skin — Monday blazing scarlet and September drinking all of him in, all that fire.

Monday can hear September’s breaths like thunder like this, he can feel them like his own, learning the rise and fall of September’s chest and how his heart pounds against its ribcage like it’s trying to fight free.

They kiss like first dates, like schoolchildren behind the bleachers, like loves lost. They’re a cliff and an ocean wave, crashing echoes that reverberate into infinity, September’s tugging at his hair now and Monday can’t help but _bite_ harder on September’s smiling lips, oh, god, Monday wants more.

They kiss like it’s the end of the world.

But the world doesn’t end, not even when they pull away once more. Flushed and hair mussed, eyes blown out and panting through half-smiles — Monday feels September’s arm tighten around his waist and doesn’t regret a thing.

With a hand on his shoulder, Monday coaxes September over and downwards till they're both lying on the bed, knees curled towards each other.

He leans up and September tilts his head for him — for another kiss, soft and gentle on the forehead. Then on the nose, and down to the chin.

"You are so good," he breathes against September’s lips. He’s smiling, he can’t help it. "I'm the luckiest thief in the world."

He’s cut off by a finger slipped against his mouth. He looks past it to see something flare, just briefly, in September’s eyes.

"Don't say things like that. It's hard enough holding myself back as is."

His gaze is ravenous. Monday can’t move as September plants kisses under his jaw and chin, his strong hands running down Monday’s trembling sides —

"Well, if you want lube, there's some in the drawer over there… but no. Not now.”

He cuts himself off with a laugh. It’s the only way he can play it down.

"Besides," he says, almost too seriously. "Never fuck on the first date. They don't come back."

And instead of _This isn’t a date,_ September says instead,

"I came back."

Those maroon eyes are perfectly clear.

It seems he's put two and two together.

Everything in Monday pauses. "What are you talking about?"

That's enough answer for September. He breaks into a grin, it's playful. "We slept together.”

Monday blinks, wide-eyed. _"No way."_

"Yes way. I had a hunch from the moment I saw you in the window."

September’s gaze grows fond.

"I knew a memory was missing… I just didn't know what. But somehow I knew your height and your frame. The touch of your skin." His hands easily find the small of Monday’s back, barely dipping beneath his belt. “It must've been a bar. I was wasted, and you picked me then."

"Did I?" Monday neither confirms nor denies anything. He only smiles, wider and wider. "Tell me more."

"I was drunk out of my mind, so we probably kissed a lot. And then fucked." September's hand trails down to Monday's back protectively. "And because I was such a breathtaking lover... you must've persuaded me to give you my number."

"My my, Mr. Red. The fact that you don't remember anything, yet your mind immediately drifts to coitus…" Monday’s grin turns cheeky. "You must be quite the promiscuous drunk, on the _regular."_

“I don’t see you complaining.”

Monday idly plays with September's collar as his cop simply gazes up at him, content. “You sleep with other guys too, Officer Redmond?”

“Well…” September smiles a little, like he knows Monday’s not just fishing for compliments. “There’s a first time for everything.”

"Really? Your first foray into that side of the pond, hmm? I must say I'm honoured."

“Me too,” agrees September. “And I can’t even remember it.”

That makes Monday laugh.

"So we're only here sucking face in the middle of nowhere," Monday taps September’s nose, "because you don't drink responsibly. How poetic."

“Like I’m the only one to blame.” September leans forward to press his nose against Monday’s finger. "You must've been pretty handsome that night. Or maybe you just talked too goddamn much and I wanted you to _shut up already—"_

The last few words dissolve into a hiss as Monday closes the distance between them. Clasps September’s roaming hands with his own. Feels him yielding, expectantly, perfectly, as Monday tugs on September’s lips and earns another breathy whimper —

— memories fly through his mind, buttons torn off, belts flung aside, a dark room with so little light but the heat of a hundred suns in the spaces between September’s bare skin and his —

_what he wouldn't give to have it again._

And yet, he pulls away one last time.

"Not now," he says. "I'm not fucking someone who could tear open all his scabs at any moment."

September laughs. It's a laugh Monday hasn't heard before. _Oh, September’s happy._

"Yes sir. Recover first, sir."

Happy and tired, it seems. September’s movements slow even as he continues to kiss Monday on the nose and on the cheek and everywhere — _wow, he is really affectionate_ — while Monday strokes his hair until the cop’s fully sunken into the pillows.

Watches as the minutes tick by and September’s fingers around his grow slack, as his blinks grow longer and heavier. As his tongue searches for his next words.

“I caught you,” says September, like it’s one of his dreams.

“Yes.”

“And you me.”

“Yes.” Monday runs a hand through September’s hair — policeman hair, shorn and stubbly on the back of his neck.

“Don’t leave me.”

That last one doesn’t sound real. Slipped through September’s lips on the edge of slumber, and it makes Monday pause — he can imagine the words fragile like glass, surely once meant for another shade of blue — and he only stares, silently, as September’s eyelids flutter shut.

“Never,” he says as his voice drops low, low enough that he knows September won’t hear him. “Not if I don’t have to.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of cannibalism and violence.

"I'm feeling some hot cocoa,” Monday says when it’s midnight, because it is what he’s feeling and honesty is part of the deal now. Whatever their deal is.

September snorts, he seems to be expecting this. “Now? Really. We’re… cuddling.” 

It’s still petulant, especially for someone like September. But he still lets go of Monday and rearranges himself on his side of the bed.

"... Don't be gone too long?" he asks. 

"Of course not," Monday soothes, patting September on the head as he rolls out. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

“You’re the pretty one.” September’s slurring a little, still drifting in and out of sleep. “You better get… your pretty head back here.”

Monday laughs. Tucks his shirt back in. Does his cuffs.

“And make me one cup too,” September calls from the bed, mock huffy. 

Monday neatens his collar and sighs, gives his cop the best smile he has.

"Sure, sweetheart. Be back in a jiff."

  
  


The kitchen is one of the most hallowed places in Tartarus. For obvious reasons.

Monday isn't surprised to find that Decade had kept the same gaudy plastic utensils he and his siblings had used as children.

One stack for Yesterday, one stack for Today—

And reaching for the bright blue mug that Monday still kinda likes, is a new arrival.

Monday takes him in quickly. Thin black tank top, cotton pants, choker. He’s a little surprised by how familiar the silhouette is, from the mussed hair curling around the neck, the carefully careless tilt of his hips, the body built for efficiency and speed… 

And when the boy turns to face him with detached curiosity, Monday finds his eyes black as sin.

This boy is every definition of pretty. 

He stares.

Monday stares back. And is unnerved to find himself blink, unable to hold that gaze. 

"Evening. Late night?" Monday says lightly, reaching for the bright blue mug as though the other boy's hand is nowhere near it. 

But in the blink of an eye, the boy snakes out his hand to hook a lone finger around the handle of the mug — 

his midnight-painted nails and carefully tinted eyelids all accentuating that black, black gaze, —

and does nothing with it. He hasn’t taken his gaze off Monday for a second.

"Yeah," the boy says eventually. Then nods in greeting. His lip is quirked just a little, and not pleasantly. "Sup."

It's tense, to say the least. 

"Not much.” Monday leans gently against the counter, on the one hand he’d drawn back swiftly to himself. “Just feeling like a hot cocoa. Yourself?"

The boy's gaze seems to sharpen, like hot chocolate is his raison de vivre.

"Feeling like a hot cocoa? What's that feel like?"

"Thick, creamy and delicious." 

Monday reaches for the tin of hot cocoa, only to find that it’s not there. Instead it’s being tossed up and down in the boy’s other hand.

He's enjoying himself.

Even Monday can't hide his surprise at the boy's speed.

He watches the tin as it sails in the air. Watches the boy. Monday calmly retrieves the second and last darker blue mug with faded stars on it, and another mug from the grey stack. The bright yellow utensils are left untouched.

He lays the mugs on the counter, waiting for the boy to finish. 

“What  _ does _ a hot cocoa feel like…” The boy catches the tin and reads off the back. "Luxuriously deep, smooth, 100% impressive."

His eyes drift to Monday's.

"Are you 100% impressive?"

"I don't know."

Monday leans further on the counter, resting his elbow on its surface as though examining the boy from another angle. Carefully casual.

"What do you think?"

The boy stares back with his black eyes. Amused. Contemplating some careful response —

_ and then  _ Monday barely reacts in time —  _ jerking _ himself back as the boy slams the tin down on the counter, the shock of it _ runs up his arm _ —

And there it is, for that brief second, so quick that Monday wouldn't have seen it if he didn't know what he was looking for: that carnal hunger in his black, black eyes.

The boy lets out a hum and turns back to the kettle. Monday does nothing else — except force himself to watch the boy’s back, the sunny-sky mug dangling carelessly off a hooked pinky. He’s so  _ thin, _ moving like he’s playing a game, like every step is a square in hopscotch. Like he’s moving to an off-tune, incoherent medley of nursery rhymes —

"So you want your cocoa with milk or water or what?" asks the boy, not looking away from the boiling kettle. "I kinda like mine with milk, but there's only enough for one cup, so."

"Just water will do, thank you. Didn't know you were offering to  _ make _ it for me. How kind."

“Of course I’m kind. I’m the kindest.” The boy fixes Monday with a sidelong glance. "But hey, if you're feeling naughty, Dad told me where the good booze is kept."

"I know where it is." Monday's smile slips into a grin. Hiding how the word  _ dad _ stings.

"No you don't. I got him to change it. You can go look and see if I'm lying."

The kettle begins to bubble and hiss.

The boy takes a carton of milk from the fridge — full cream, seems some things don’t change — and leans against the counter. "You know you could've just said  _ please. _ I know how to make drinks for people."

"I'd actually prefer mixing my own drinks, if you don't mind. I'll see where the cinnamon's at..."

Monday goes to the cupboards and opens them, one by one, trying his best not to rush as he finally reaches...

The alcohol cabinet. Or at least, the cabinet where he remembers the alcohol being stored. He opens the doors and it’s...

filled with liquor. Nothing has changed.

Monday closes the cabinet without pause — he can feel the boy’s grin weighing so heavily on his back — moves to the next one and extracts the cinnamon. "Ah, here it is."

“There it is,” says the boy.

”And it’s the good brand! It’ll taste great. Want some?"

Monday tosses the cinnamon over before his sentence is even finished — the boy plucks it out of the air and sets it down. "Gross. It tastes like wood. But thanks I guess.” 

He fills his cup with water, except Monday abruptly realises that it’s  _ his _ mug — the dull, faded one he’d been left with for coming in second. The brighter one lies abandoned by the tin of cocoa powder.

“You’re making my drink after all?”

“Nah. This mug’s mine now. Felt like it.”

Suddenly Monday doesn’t want the brighter mug anymore.

"So what am I supposed to call you? Heard you have a stupid name now.”

"Oh, please, just Mon will do. Or Day. Whatever you fancy."

Monday’s smile is wide and empty.

"It's lovely to meet you, Seven."

Finally, the boy grins back. It's more just showing fangs than a grin. It looks off. It looks  _ awful. _

It wouldn't be a grin at all if not for the glee in his eyes.

"It's lovely to meet you too, Mon. But really just call me Steven, I like that name."

“Sure, Steven.” Monday says to Seven. “Whatever you like.”

Seven steps close to Monday, far closer into his personal space than need be, given he's simply reaching around to extract a teaspoon from the drawer. A delicate, floral cologne hangs off him.

Then, all relaxed, he just leans back against the nearby table and stirs his drink. While Monday, with some effort, sets about making his. 

"So how'd you know my name, Monnie? Am I so famous you heard about me while you were out frolicking and wasting your time?"

"Oh, not at all. But Dad would  _ not _ stop talking about you.”

Behind him, Seven splutters. 

"Really?" His voice, suddenly, is so childlike. "What did Dad say?"

Those black eyes are wide and intense. 

"Oh, you know… he smiled. Wistfully." Monday knows that look. Knows that hunger, that want. "Seemed proud of you."

Seven laughs. "Oh shit, really?" He takes another big gulp from his mug.

Monday spoons some cocoa powder into his cup and stirs. “It’s not easy becoming an Hour so young. How'd you do it?"

Seven swipes a thin milk moustache off his lip. He taps his foot and murmurs secretively, "It's not that hard. It’s a joke.”

“What is?”

“The joke!” Seven huffs. The  _ tap tapping _ of his foot punctuates his words unevenly, along with the tinkle of his spoon.  _ Tink tap.  _ “You never heard of the joke? Why was Six afraid of Seven?"

Monday sets aside his mug to cool, reaching for the second grey one. "Enlighten me."

"Because seven eight nine."

They stare at each other.  _ Tink tap tap tap tink. Tink tap. _ Seven’s biting his bottom lip, one of those ugly smiles trying to burst free.

"Like,  _ ate _ nine. Get it? Ate him, like, for dinner!" 

Seven’s voice is so loud and harsh through his lopsided grin. 

"I," he declares proudly, "Ate the ninth Hour. He was delicious. Going to the gym and all that healthy eating, man, really paid off."

He licks his lips wolfishly.  _ Tink tap. _

"Oh yeah, by the way. They brought in some cops for dinner, heard it's because of you? They were great too. I think cops taste way better. Must be something they're fed. Think maybe they have special police food out there.”

It’s to Monday’s immense credit, while stirring his second mug, that his spoon never falters. 

"You're right about that.” He replies with a smile. "Cops taste  _ delicious.  _ Though I can't help but wonder what happened to Eight. Don't tell me you ate him too? It doesn’t quite make sense with the pun."

"Pun schmun.  _ Two Hours, _ Monnie! That’s even better than eating crocodile.” 

Seven sips noisily from his mug, clutching it with both hands.  _ Taptap. Tap. _

“Eight,” he says, “Eight deserved it. He made too many mistakes.”

He falls silent. Monday carefully keeps his spoon moving, careful not to make a sound—

“And Nine.” 

Seven’s eyes turn blacker still.

“It’s a good joke, right? Seven  _ ate _ nine?” He’s baring teeth around the rim of his mug. “I kept threatening to eat him. But that idiot didn’t believe I had the guts. Said I was a coward. Said I was stupid. Seven eight nine  _ seven eight nine _ well I ate Nine because he was a  _ fucking jackass!” _

_ Clunkclatter.  _ Cocoa splatters all over the countertop, steam rising soon after. Seven’s slammed his cup down, fingers white, veins standing out from his pale skin. His tank top is soaked on one side. And his spoon’s fallen to the floor.

"Seven eight  _ Nine!  _ Always coming up in my business. Saying I should lay off the kids. I know how to run my joint. I know what to do to make them behave. He thinks he’s so special because he’s good with his stupid little toys. Thinks he can  _ play _ me like one of them. Fuck that.  _ Fuck him,  _ I do what I want. And those fucking kids? I like to see them cry. But then Nine pushed me.”

Seven’s black eyes burn bright. So bright. 

“Nine. Pushed me. He  _ pushed _ me. Fucking pushed me  _ in front of all those fucking children!" _

His voice echoes. Monday can barely stop his gaze from going glassy with fear— Seven’s braced against the counter, bony shoulders heaving, lips twisted in an animal snarl.

The kind of animal you can only get from an unwanted child.

And like a switch’s down Seven recollects himself and sips from his half-empty mug. 

“So I ate him.”

The smile is gone from Monday's face. All but wiped off. It's all he can do to look somewhat close to concerned, pitiful — rather than horrified.

"Tragedy."

The second mug is finished.

"We should have lunch some time. Brunch. Tea. I'd love to hear more about you, Steven."

And he picks up both mugs, making his way past Seven to leave —

Seven’s already leaning against the door. He’s picking at something in his teeth, a gesture that means all too much for Monday, who can’t help but notice that the other boy is exactly his height.

"Always wondered what one of dad's kids would taste like," he says. "Dad feeds you guys all the best things. Bet you taste real good. I've been wondering for years and years and."

He gets the fleck out and laps it up. 

Swallows.

“For months and months… Dad only ever talked about  _ you,” _ Seven says, voice low, smoldering eyes narrowed. “I saw your room. All those toys. A huge bed. Your own shower. All the pens you want.”

Monday smiles carefully. “Hey now, that’s not true. We can totally share!…” 

“I,” Seven cuts him off, “don’t think you deserve all that. Not after you ran away from Dad. That room? Those pretty glow-in-the-dark stars? They should be  _ mine.” _

Monday supposes their father never quite loved Seven. 

“I don’t like that you get to keep everything.  _ Everything _ you want and more. Yeah, by the way—”

The angry lines across Seven’s face suddenly disappear. 

"Three and Four told me how they beat up this prisoner this morning. A cop, they said. But why?” Seven tilts his head innocently. “Why. Haven’t. They. Eaten. That. Cop?”

He looks down at the two cups in Monday's hands. 

"I know the cop's in there. In your room. Can you believe it? A  _ cop, _ in there before  _ me?” _ His body twitches. "If I met him… should I play with him? I haven’t had fun in a long time, but… I could also eat him —"

"Cop's a strict vegetarian. I'm sure he'd taste  _ horrible."  _

It appears Monday’s had enough. His gaze has crystallised — equal parts deep understanding and abject fear — and his smile is perfect.

"Perhaps a tea party? To get to know each other?"

"Tea parties are dumb." Seven drifts away from the door and back to his cup and its cocoa, now cold. “You want it fancy? Like how Dad does it? Or you got other ideas?”

“I’d be delighted to let you choose.” 

Seven laughs into his cup. “Sure.”

"Lovely, Steven. I'll keep you posted."

  
  


Monday’s back in his room in a matter of seconds, balancing two cups of cocoa with perhaps a bit too much cinnamon in each of them.

His eyes are dark. September sits up to greet him —

"I met the castle dragon."   
  
"What?"   
  
"Seven," Monday says, as solemn as death itself. "I met the heir."


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for descriptions of violence and gore, cannibalism.

_I met him. The heir._

September slowly pushes himself up in bed. Monday knows that look, he’s seen September jump at enough leads to recognise it by now.

“Tell me everything.”

Monday holds out the grey mug of cocoa and says nothing, leaving September no choice but to take it. September carefully studies the set of his jaw as he takes a sip.

“Not too much cinnamon?” says Monday.

“Nope.”

Monday seems absent, all manners of plans and backup plans churning behind his eyes. Even with his shirt tucked in properly and sleeves sharp and crisp, he looks off-center. Like he’s not used to being in his own skin anymore.

"Seven," he goes on, in a strange tone, "only wants to impress."

September stays silent for a moment, holding his mug in both hands. “That makes him very dangerous.”

"It does."

Monday heads over to the desk and sits in the chair facing September. He drinks from his own mug. Blue and jarring bright.

“Surprisingly, this gives us a way out.” His voice has never been more calm, more even. “Dad doesn’t care about him. So Seven’s jealous. He’ll do anything to get Dad’s approval.”

September bristles, he seems to know where this is going. Monday merely keeps his gaze on his cocoa.

"And to do that, Seven only needs to do one thing. Kill me."

“Are you fucking insane? That’s not gonna happen. Not over my dead body—”

“Look, I won’t let him, okay? The point is it’ll buy you time to escape. You’ll get out, bring the FBI here—”

”I took an oath to serve and protect. I will _never_ sacrifice someone in the name of duty.” September’s gaze is hard. "We're doing this another way."

 _"I can take care of myself."_ Monday replies, equally hard. "You're not sacrificing anyone. _Nobody’s_ going to die.”

“You don’t know that. Sending you to deal with one of the Hours all alone? It’s a huge fucking mistake!”

“No, officer, I told you. The dragon is Seven. You slay it to get to the king.” Monday replies evenly. “And neither you nor I can deal with my father _all alone.”_

Another placid sip of cocoa. September’s breathing hard and can’t help but think — _how dare he._

“Besides, you know my dear father would never let me die.”

"I'm _not_ leaving you behind, Monday! We already _have_ a plan! A safer plan! Waiting for Braxten, someone who has more available resources. We get out together."

"We don't get to sit back and let her do all the work for us. She'll get us out of the desert. But _you_ have to get out. If I stay, I can buy you some time. A few days. Maybe a week."

"You wanna throw a fucking spanner into Decade’s plans now? The man’s _insane._ And what if he sends Seven after me? You’ll be stuck in Tartarus and I’ll be dragged back here, carved up into some fucking steak—”

“He won’t care about you if I’m here in Tartarus—”

 _"Listen to me,_ Monday!”

Monday listens. It’s abruptly, abundantly clear that he’s listening, with his _chilling_ blue eyes flicking upwards from his mug.

Cold as his eyes in that holding cell, plans laid bare and revealing himself a scion of Tempus for the first time.

September grinds his jaws, no doubt biting back something coarse and hurtful. “I'm trying. To play along here. But it’s not. Gonna work. Say I run. Make it to the FBI. Then what? Lead them here? I don’t know where here fucking is!”

“Ask Ten, perhaps. The one with more available resources.”

“But that’s not part of the deal, what if Ten doesn’t give a fuck? Then what, I stay at Conrad, babysitting Evie, pushing papers? Doing _detective_ work? All the Hours, I can’t — I have no names. No MOs. No dealings or history. No idea where they work or where they’re gonna run.” September exhales. “If you stay here I won’t be able to do jackshit!”

The navy bedsheets are clenched in September’s grip, pulled so tight they might tear. His eyes are bright with ire.

And Monday just stares.

"There has to be another way. There _has to."_ September’s voice lilts funny, like he’s on the verge of losing himself. "I was planning to ask Decade to let me… go to a shipment. Either that or I could. Be one of his runners. Do the grunt work. I dunno."

(In that cold blue gaze, there’s the slightest flinch.)

"I haven't actually tried behaving for him yet. You know. Being good."

September exhales, shuddering — it’s clear the thought repulses him. And Monday… Monday’s looking at his cocoa again. Pale brown and creamy, cinnamon scattered across it like so much dirt.

“Monday. You told me, last night. Hang tight. Pick my battles, and stay safe —”

“And you’re doing,” says Monday, “a _grand_ job of that.”

A shiver, unbidden, races up September’s spine as he sees Monday’s eyes have gone from cold to ice. A joyless smirk playing on his lips.

“...Really.” September retorts. “If I’ve done so _grandly_ then you should fucking trust me—”

 _“Sarcasm,_ Sept. Have you truly learned nothing? You’re so straightforward it’s embarrassing.”

It’s _off_ again, so off. Monday has always been flippant but there’s a crooked edge to him now, like a switch has been thrown —

 _“Look_ at yourself.” Monday’s wrist flicks outwards from his folded arms, gesturing at September’s body. “Just so you know, this is not the torture my father uses for submission. If he wanted you pliant you wouldn’t be here. Those cuts and bruises? Those scars are _entertainment,_ Septie.”

_You’re far, far out of your league._

”No, I —” September swallows. Rattled. "He needs another Eleven. And that’s how I get to Conrad, contact the FBI —”

"It won't be you."

“You don’t know that—”

“You’re stubborn. Mulish _,_ even. He can’t reprogram you. Ven’s different. He was scared, and Decade had collateral. And you don’t have any. At least, no collateral that already belongs to him.”

September freezes as he realizes what Monday means.

“Relax, Septie, it’s the same for me too. Dad’s keeping you here as my chain, he knows I’ll protect you. The only reason why it’s not the other way round is that I’m more _useful.”_

“Useful?—”

“So. You get out, You gather your pals from the station and come back to siege the nest, while I distract Daddy by becoming his golden boy again.”

There’s no emotion in Monday’s voice. It’s awful.

“Golden boy, huh,” September growls, “What does that mean? Sitting pretty? Talking cute? Just nodding along to all his fucking lies about what’s right for a child to do and what isn’t?”

"That's right. He’ll feed me all of his delicious lies. I’ll lap up every last morsel. And then I will be perfect heir again, and things will go back to the way they should be—”

(And Monday’s eyes grow harder and harder as Ten’s words ring in his head like thunder —

_Get your boy out alive._

— It’s almost too loud. It’s all he can hear —)

“— with you away from danger, and with me away from you.”

“You can’t say that,” says September slowly, “after what we just did.”

(And that’s almost a chip in Monday’s armour.)

“How can you fucking think that’s okay? Wasting everything you’ve worked for? Rolling over on your stomach again? If I didn’t know I’d think you wanted this _._ ”

“I don’t, Septie, I’m _buying you time —”_

“I bet that’s it.” September doesn’t let up. He doesn’t know how. “You think Seven wants to impress? Well deep down inside you wanna do that too! You haven’t let go of being Decade's son. You can’t. You’re too scared to be anything else."

Monday scoffs. “You think jumping out the window and changing my name isn’t enough of _letting go?”_

"And you’re going _right back to it._ The moment things go wrong, the moment you return to Tartarus. You’re just gonna do what you did in the past and hope things turn out okay.”

"It's better than you dying for our family drama."

“I’ll die either way if you make shitty plans with one foot out the fucking door! If you still think Decade’s your father, you’ll—”

"He is. He is my father." Monday’s knuckles are white around his mug. "And that's exactly why I want to _fucking kill him,_ do you understand?"

”Okay. _Okay._ So you kill him. And then what? When you’re standing over his dead body, what? You’ll be everything Decade wanted you to become! If you won’t admit that Decade isn’t your goddamn father you’ll _never_ see how much of a monster this revenge is making you!”

Monday says nothing. The ice in his eyes slowly cracking, whirling into a storm.

“Are you done?”

“Fuck, Monday — You’re not Decade’s son. You know that. You’re _so much more_ than that!”

“I am my father’s son,” says Monday. "That’s how I know our odds are different. You are _at_ _risk,_ Sept. Ten told me about the last cop who came here. If you stay here any longer, my father will—”

 _"He's not your father!!"_ September roars. “He's _not your father_ and he never will be! _Don't_ talk about him like you're _family!_ That man’s just a dangerous criminal, fucked in the head — he'll _never_ think about you like you're his son!"

"The entire problem," replies Monday, quietly, "is that he does."

He doesn't react to September's rage.

If anything, his utter lack of emotion is most telling.

"Kids don’t choose their parents. I'm no different from anyone else. He is, whether you or I like it or not, my father."

His smile is very blank, and his eyes are very dark.

"And _darling,_ I'm sorry, but you can't tell me you know how to deal with him better than I can.”

“So what if I can’t.” September’s voice is wavering. “You need to hear the truth from someone who isn’t caught up in this fucked up mess—”

“Ha!” Monday barks out a laugh. “Fucked up.”

There's a family resemblance to that laugh. If Monday feels any remorse for September's brief spike of fear, he doesn't show it.

"You've got a _great_ family, don't you? To even understand what a father is _supposed_ to be like. He raised me. That's all. That's a _fact._ Doesn't mean I love him, or idolise him, or whatever else you get to associate that word with."

Monday’s put his cocoa behind him, on the desk, beside the stationery holder with clouds and stars cut from the sides.

“My father _needs_ to be ended."

It seems he doesn't trust himself not to spill it anymore.

"I’ll call him whatever I want."

His eyes sear like lightning into a tossing ocean. He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, casual as anything.

“Let’s talk about fucked up. You wanna talk about what happens if you stay here? You really wanna know? Because he’s already done it once before,” Monday says, just like he’s reciting a recipe. “He’ll starve you. Lock you in an anteroom. Shut off the ventilation. He’ll take your sight, then your hearing. Keep you too parched to speak, too weak to stand. He’ll cut you up, bleed you out, let your wounds muster and infect so you’ll always be in pain. But you won’t be anywhere close to death or sleep, no, you won’t have that luxury. And you’re finally given in and begged him for mercy he’ll make you watch as he takes off one of your fingers or toes or a little of your back or tongue, and make you eat it off the ground.”

And September’s jaws are clenched so tight.

“Monday,” September says weakly. “You’re scaring me.”

“I should,” Monday says. “Maybe now you understand why you need to _listen to me.”_

"You—”

September’s had enough. He’s on his feet, one shaking arm on the bed frame.

"You will not arrange anything with Seven without my approval. That's an order."

"Understood, officer. When you're back down in the basement with Three and Four, I'll be sure to listen out for your orders.”

Monday stands and picks out a blue hair tie from his dresser. Tests it, stretches it between nimble fingers.

Behind him, September lets out a long, pained breath.

_"Stop.”_

September’s voice is rough.

“We're on the same fucking team. We both want the same things, okay? Just. Give me some time to think." September raises a hand. He's done with this argument. "We _need._ A fucking. _Plan."_

"We have one.” Monday replies evenly, tossing aside the hair tie for a brighter one. “I’m the sacrificial lamb, and you get help to take down Tartarus from the outside—”

“No. It’s _not happening.”_

“The plan can work. _We_ could make it work if you didn't _shoot it_ down right out of the door.”

“You just met Seven a few minutes ago, how can you know what you’re up against—”

“I met him. Trust me, that’s more than enough. Seven plays with his food just like his old man.”

“— _Plays_ with his —”

“He’s been dreaming of killing me his whole life. Just _imagine_ the fight he has in mind, Septie, it’ll be spectacular.”

Monday’s giving his clothes one last pat-down. Ignoring September’s horrified face in the mirror.

“Furniture crashing, precious artworks breaking, lots of uncouth shouting, blood absolutely _everywhere,_ and all eyes on us! And with the stage lights ablaze and the audience enraptured, I will put an end to my father once and for all.”

“No! We haven’t even discussed anything else _—”_

“You just don’t _want_ to leave, do you?” Monday’s smiling. It's not pretty. “You’ve talked so much about me now let’s talk about you. Even when the odds are stacked so high, you just have to smash yourself against the wall a million times, get shot down a million more, and then be trampled to nothing before you’ll finally admit that this is the only way out.”

September sags against the wall. _“You_ fought those odds.”

“I did. I’ve never needed a reason to stay, but now I have one.” Monday’s eyes burn. “I stay to save you.”

September slams down a fist. “Monday, _fuck,_ can you _just_ —”

“Just admit it, Sept!” Monday whirls around. Chin up, eyes bright and out for blood. The hair tie hanging from one finger. “You’re just upset because you can’t be a cop for once.”

September falls silent, and Monday’s smirk curls a little more. “Strange, isn’t it? Being the damsel in distress? Does it hurt your ego that much? Get used to it. This isn’t about you, Sept. It’s time you stopped acting like it is.”

He maintains eye contact as he reaches up and gathers his hair behind him.

“You don’t want to leave because you always have to save the day.”

Deftly binds his ponytail.

“You have to be the hero.”

Snaps the hair tie in place.

“You have to be the one who suffers.”

September’s gaze crumples a little.

“Monday,” he says, voice cracking just the slightest, “Why would you think that—”

The door handle turns —

_It was locked before, Monday’s sure._

— and swings open.

Framed in the doorway with his crooked smile, black wings and nails, and vacant gaze, stands Seven.

September's already on his feet, shielding Monday with his body.

_Always the hero._

Seven's eyes widen, raking down the cop's ruined body, the angry mottled bruises and scabbing cuts. And then his tongue peeks out just briefly from between his teeth, as if tasting the air, as if trying to hold himself back from licking his lips. As if manners ever meant anything to someone as unstable as him.

And the storm in Monday’s gaze abruptly clears.

What a monster — it takes one to know one.

“I was thinking about that tea party,” Seven says, gaze firmly on September, “Think it’d be fun to have it now.”

“Perfect timing!” says Monday. “We were just talking about you. We’d love to attend.”

And September’s casting just a brief, frustrated glance over his shoulder at Monday — _we didn’t fucking talk about this._

Seven’s eyes are bright with lust and delight all at once, his body slack, coiled tight like a snake’s, goosebumps all over his skin.

“Sup,” says Seven airily to September.

Seven makes as if to step forward and September counters, pulling himself to his full height. Seven looks up at him.

“Oh, you’re big.”

September lifts the corner of his lip in a silent growl.

And Seven’s crooked smile grows a little more crooked still.

 _"Easy,"_ says Seven. “I won’t bite.”

“You’ll make a mess if you do it here,” Monday soothes, coming up beside September. “Why don’t we give you some time to set the table, Steven? Take all the time you want.”

Seven’s shoulders draw up in a deep inhale.

“Steven,” Monday says again, and finally Seven’s eyes flick over to him, “We’d love that tea party, but we can’t do it if the table’s not set.”

Seven’s eyes lid.

“Want more cocoa?” he says bluntly, “Soda? Booze?”

“Just tea will do, thank you. It’s very kind of you.”

Seven’s gaze sharpens at the praise.

And then he’s gone, sauntering down the corridor, humming his off-tune hum.

September turns to Monday with a snarl. “What the _fuck—”_

“You stay here,” Monday mutters, with no trace of fire at all. It’s almost like he’s apologetic.  “I’ll distract him.”

September presses a shaking hand to his eyes. His palm comes away wet. _”No._ I’m not staying here—”

And his bad leg buckles, sending him slumping against the dresser. His face has already taken a grey tinge from strain.

It's like a surge of pain flashes through Monday too, when he sees that leg.

"I can tell him you're indisposed," Monday says quietly as September gathers himself together and straightens. "We could bring the cake to the room."

_"No."_

September’s busying himself with the painkillers, swallowing three of them dry. He says, more calmly, “I won’t forgive myself if something happened to you. I’m coming and that’s fucking final.”

September takes another big breath, packing the pain away. Even though he's broken into cold sweat. And when he walks out the room there's only just a slight limp.

“Sept—”

 _“Just,”_ says September without slowing. “Let me.”

Monday stares. It’s a different stare from before, there’s no more chill.

It’s just sad now. Guilty. Afraid.

And then he slips himself under September's arm. He isn't too much of a help, but it's something.

He can feel September slowly but surely  shifting his weight onto him, and he gives to it.

They walk, slowly.

They pass the kitchen, barely noticing a khaki-coloured shape with salt and pepper hair downing some hot water and Ambien at the counter. He watches them.

It’s Eleven.

Hesitantly, he digs out his phone.

  


No lights are on in the dining hall.

Only candlelight, at the far end of the table, with cakes and teacups laid out in the shadows.

It only makes the room seem larger, longer. Darker.

Seven's sprawled in Decade's chair, enjoying his seat at the throne. Light bouncing off him like some gargoyle, a chimera emerged from the gutter. He welcomes them with a lazy sweep of one bony arm.

“Morning of the top, friends,” he proclaims, a horrific facsimile of his father’s British accent, “Don’t look so stressed. This is a party! And we’re gonna have some fun.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for detailed / extreme violence and cannibalism.

”So glad you could make it. I busted out all the prettiest plates and candles, really wrecked the town on this one, never knew I could be so goddamn delicate. Matching cups and saucers.”

"Dad would be proud. It looks lovely. Worthy of a centerfold in Home Improvement and Housewives."

Monday takes his usual seat next to the throne. His voice is light again, no hint of the hesitation from barely a minute ago.

Eyes fixed on Seven, gaze coloured with a clear, determined light.

"But chocolate cake? That's not vegan at all." He puts his finger right in the icing and scoops some out. Ruining the pretty picture. “Didn’t you say you _wrecked the town_ on this one? An elementary mistake isn’t all that impressive to me, Steven darling.”

Seven’s gaze darkens.

“It’s okay, I’ll just drink the tea.” September hurriedly says, giving Monday a sharp nudge under the table. But Monday goes on without a flinch.

“Would’ve expected Dad’s new favorite to know better. He’ll be _so_ disappointed.”

“Oh shit,” Seven breathes. His eyes are faraway. Unfocused. “Cake has cow in it.”

September says again, “It’s fine—”

 _“No, it’s fucking not.”_ He bares his teeth. “I know how allergies work. You will _not_ eat the cake, or I _will kill_ you.”

The words echo off the walls. September’s eyes dart between Seven — breathing, staring, waiting for a reply — and Monday, whose blue gaze can’t hide that he’s been rattled at least a little.

“I won’t eat it.” September murmurs. “Promise.”

The boy, gradually, calms. While the cop glances one last time at the thief — _I hope you know what you’re fucking doing._

“So what’s the tea, Steven?” continues Monday, leaning on his elbows with the sweetest smile.

Seven tilts his head down, towards the table. It’s like he’s some broken marionette, still-eyed and badly-jointed. Seven squints at the label hanging out of the pot.

"Cha… momile." He says finally, pronouncing the _ch_ in it. "Flower tea, whatever. Drink."

September hesitates, but there’s nothing else to do but reach for the teapot.

 _"Oh,_ he's _scared_ of me,” Seven bursts into choppy laughter, like some eureka moment, “See that? He's fucking _scared!_ Man, I'm _sorry._ Thought you were so big and fierce in Monnie’s room?”

"I'm sure he just needs some _camomile,_ darling, calms the nerves."

Monday intercepts the teapot and sets about pouring three cups —

Except the cups have jumped off their saucers and Seven’s leaning close, hands gripping the edges of the table. Fingers claw-like, tendons standing out in his scrawny shoulders.

“You think you can lie to me and fucking get away with it?”

Monday slowly sets the teapot down. “I’m sorry?”

“The tea. The _fucking tea._ You don’t say it like that. Dad never taught you how to spell? You tryna mess with me?”

Monday raises his eyebrows a notch. "Oh, no, not at all. Chamomile is certainly the way it’s spelt. Apologies."

“Saying whatever the fuck you want. Just ‘cause you’re Daddy’s faaaaaavorite,” Seven says darkly.

His eyes slide over to September.

“You! Drink!”

Visibly hiding a flinch, September looks at his steaming cup, then slowly reaches out and takes a few long sips. Carefully. But still singeing his tongue.

"Delicious," he replies as evenly as he can. "I've drunk many teas in my life and this is one of the best."

"Ha. See, what'd I tell you. Good taste. And Dad never lets me decide anything? His loss."

It's definitely not his father's loss.

He seems to cheer as Monday boldly passes him his cup of tea, and drops in three cubes of sugar. "Anyway, Monnie. Welcome back. You know dad just wants you safe. You gotta learn how to let him care for you."

Monday smiles around his tea, which has been steeped for way too long. "I don't know if you missed the part where he tied me up and dragged me back in."

The smile falls from Seven’s face.

"Tied _you_ up? Lying again. _Lying."_

He flicks his knife at September, who immediately stiffens.

“Tell. Me, The truth.”

"Monday's just trying to lighten the mood," explains September. It's his Official Voice. "Obviously the one who got tied up is me. Ropes, cuffs, ankles, wrists, everything. I had to hop and Monday picked the knots with a pen."

Seven gives no reply. Through the messy locks falling across his face he stares at Monday and waits for an explanation. Or an apology.

“Oh, you know me. Always playing the fool,” Monday says, and Seven finally collects himself again. Rises and falls like the tide, this one. “So? How about you? Enjoying the safety and comfort of home?"

“Oh yeah, for sure.” Seven’s grin fades a little. ”Not enough meat though. Kinda boring.”

"Aw, Daddy not letting you out? Afraid you'll end up leaving like his _faaaaavourite,_ favourite child?"

September nudges Monday's arm with his elbow as he whispers, _"Monday what the fuck, are you_ actually _trying to make him mad?”_

"Ha! I would never. You're a _runaway,”_ Seven sneers. “A pitiful, selfish, cowardly runaway. You're worse than a worm, Monday. And I step on worms. I grind them under my shoe until they burst."

"And where do you get worms in this arid, godforsaken desert? I thought worms needed damp places. I suppose you grow them in your room."

September's hiss of _Monday!_ is drowned out by Seven's raucous laugh. Somehow it sounds like Monday hit a sore spot.

"In the garden, _stupid._ I take great care of my room. I'm better than his favourite child. Bringing drinks and food—" his eyes flick briefly over to September. "—into bed. Causing trouble. Messing up the sheets."

"Yes, of course. I'm _despicable."_

Monday notices the flick. He smiles sweetly.

"Anyway, let's dig in." And aside to September, "Sept, let me know if you’d like more tea.”

"Sept? The fuck kinda name is that. Septer? Septacle? Oh _no_ — it’s fucking _September?”_ At the cop’s flinch, he barks out a laugh. “You’re _called_ September? Ha! The fuck kinda shit name is that!"

There’s no getting out of this quietly. September meets Seven's livid glare, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "I like my name."

"I don't care," says Seven. "So you're _Officer September what?"_

"Redmond."

 _“Oh!”_ Seven howls. "Oh, what a joke. Fits you perfect,” he grins, drawing invisible lines over his own arms. Then he straightens. “Hey, this is funny, our names don’t match — Steven, Red, and Monday.”

“It’s Redmond,” September replies, like he’s waiting for this. “Only Monday gets to call me Sept.”

It hits Seven like a slap. He stops smiling. Helplessly, Monday splutters.

"Go ahead, Steven, he can't stop you," he says, then mutters at September around a mouthful of cake. _"So much for not making him mad.”_

 _"You_ wanted _this, right?"_ September mutters back.

And Monday exhales, preparing, as Seven sets the knife down. No, more like flings it into the middle of the cake, sending chocolate mousse splattering on the carpet.

"You fuck. I will beat the _ever-loving fuck_ outta you, Mr Red."

“Maybe it’s better if everyone just called me September,” says September softly.

Relaxing one limb at a time, Seven leans back against his chair.

“You know. We had a prisoner once. A greasy little rat. And he pissed me off. He wouldn't tell me the fucking truth. So I broke his wrists and smashed his skull in with his watch. I looked at the second hand turn, he was dead before it turned ‘round once. And I can do the same to—”

"That is  a _fantastic_ party story. Wow," quips Monday lightly, to redirect him. "You don't happen to have any _friends,_ do you?"

Seven's gaze drifts. He straightens, like he's just coming to terms with that.

_You don't happen to have any friends._

And Monday’s eyes can’t help but soften when he realises — he's right. Seven is lonely. Tartarus is, after all, a big house with many things and no soul.

"Hey, hey. We're having a party now, right? Come on, let's get to know each other."

Another blink and Seven comes back to himself. The destroyed cake, the shattered glasses, the lone knife standing crookedly out from the pile of once-cake. In the company of a cop and Decade's favorite child.

He flops back in his chair. Blinking hazily at the clump of cake Monday slides front of him. Picks up his spoon. And then silently begins eating with utter disinterest, as though eating was just a chore.

September mutters, "What the fuck."

But Monday's eyes are intent on Seven. It’s like he’s played a piece wrong, and he’s reassessing the board.

"The cake’s good, right? You chose well."

He's watching a wild animal.

Weighing his choices.

Seven fishes out the teabag from the teapot, sucks it dry, then drains his cup of now lukewarm tea. It’s like he hasn’t heard a thing.

Absently, he looks at — through — Monday.

"I don't need your approval," he says at last.

"No, you don't." Monday’s placating. Careful. "But I wanted to tell you nonetheless. Don't you think so, _Sept?"_

"Of course," says September with equal care. "You did good."

Seven's eyes lid, just a fraction.

"Shouldn't have smashed the chocolate cake," he murmurs. "I like chocolate.” A growl slips through his lips. "Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid."_

Abruptly, he stands and storms out of the room. They can hear jars rattling as he pulls a fridge door open and roots around.

September shoots Monday a look. _You wanted to go up against this guy alone?_

And Monday just stares back. _Yes._

“Don’t think I’m leaving without you,” mutters September.

“You’ll only have one shot.” Monday’s not listening. “Seven’s volatile.”

“Yeah, I fucking figured! And how about you? Pissing him off one minute, playing nice the next?”

"I’m testing the waters.”

“For what? Playing with a shark? We don’t have the time for that kind of thing!”

“I need to gauge his threshold. Find out his buttons —”

“And that means mashing all of them at once? Monday! Do you even know what the fuck you’re doing?!”

 _“I do.”_ Monday’s staring at the table. He’s gone stiff again. “I will. When it’s time, I swear I will.”

September visibly holds back a grimace. “Well you’d better make up your goddamn mind before _when_ becomes _now—”_

Nothing more is said as Seven trots back. "Hey, eat.”

He tosses a chocolate bar and it lands squarely in Monday’s cake.

“Said my choice was good, right? Hershey's is good."

"It's lovely." Monday extracts the bar of chocolate from his cake and unwraps it gingerly, wiping his hand on a napkin.

"So, Steven. We're here to get to know each other, aren't we?"

"Mhmm. Sup."

Gnawing happily on his own bar, Seven seems to have settled somewhat. And he seems to have forgotten that he was the one who'd organised the entire tea party in the first place.

Mystifying.

Monday glances at September, then back. Exhales imperceptibly.

”I never did tell you about my escapades in Conrad, did I?”

Seven perks up despite himself. Storytime.

“So, well, I was doing some petty crime. You know,” he goes on, when Seven only stares, “Stealing. Robbing. Little things. The kind you do when you run away from home. And then, who should I find chasing me but a cop."

He cues September with a look.

"Uh… yeah. He stole… a…  purse." Looks at Monday, then seems to decide, _nah._ "A purse full of jewelry.”

Seven blinks.

“Enough to buy a ton of cocaine. Maybe two.”

Seven lets out a low whistle. "A lotta cocaine."

Monday nods enthusiastically. "Yes! Naturally, he starts chasing me. And so I try to lose him in a farmer's market. And wouldn't you know it, there's a _cow_ in the middle of the road."

"I crashed into it. I mean, I was half blind! He toppled almond milk on me," grumbles September.

"Isn't almond a nut," asks Seven. "You can't get milk outta nut."

"Some nuts are milky," says Monday. "You gotta grind them, is all."

Seven wordlessly picks out a nut from the ruined cake. Sets it down on the table. And brings his glass down on it _once,_ abruptly, turning it to crumbs.

He prods at the pile of crushed almond with his finger, leaning close. No milk.

“Huh,” says Seven, curiously, “No nut milk.”

“So, how about you, Steven?” Monday asks, seizing his chance to move the conversation along, probe deeper, “I’d love to hear how you became an Hour.”

It’s like Seven’s coming out of a daze, taking in the crooked silverware, the mess of chocolate cake and non-milky nut pile, his two guests staring at him expectantly. _That’s right,_ he seems to realise, _I’m a party host._

He sniffs absently. Blinks a couple times. Scrubs his nose with the back of his hand, childlike. Then his gaze livens up a little, the boy is gone.

"I," he says dramatically, "am _good._ One time, one of Ten’s people lost it and tried to run. To get to the cops or something. And Ten let him get away, can you believe that? So I chased him down three miles. Accidentally beat him to death with a packet of frozen fish heads, though. But at least we stopped having runners. And then Dad gave me my own shipment after.” His smile twists into something ugly. _Seven's back._ "Ten doesn't know how to keep kids in line."

"Doesn't she? I always liked her approach. Food. Bribery. Simple."

"You think? I came from one of those boxes, I should know." He snaps a chunk off the bar. "Chocolate don't persuade a scared kid. You know what does?" he says, chewing loudly, _"Fear._ I _scared_ them all into being good. And there wasn’t even a damn peep outta them. Everywhere Decade — this was before I called him dad, in case you don't know — sent me, I never lost a single kid. Not one. I was the best."

Monday knows what this means, its implications. But they seem to sink in anew now. He's almost respectful as he goes on. "And when did you get to call him Dad, then?"

"After you left." His eyes are bright. Alert. His voice shifting into something more innocent, more plain. "He said he'd like the company. That he respected my skills. He let me wear anything I wanted. Gave me my own bed. My own pyjamas and stuffed toys, when I’m good."

The gentlest smile.

"He said he wanted a son like me for a very long time."

"Well, I'm glad he got one." Monday's smile is colder, closed off — like he can't help it. "And how's Dad doing? Fit as a fiddle?"

Seven taps his lip, deep in thought.

"Like, I guess. He’s doing all these wild things now. Killing, punishing, torturing them. It’s a lot more meat dinners now than when I was a kid. So, this is new. I like this new. Must be ‘cause I’m Dad’s son now, huh?”

Monday hears the faintest sound of September working down a knot in his throat.

(Plus, he doesn't need to look to know how saying 'dad' grates on September's nerves.)

"You know, Monnie," says Seven, crushing the chocolate-stained aluminum wrapper and stuffing it behind his ear, “Ever since you left, it’s like Dad’s still mad about something. He never stops thinking about you. And now even though you’re back he’s still mad. I can tell.”

He looks at Monday with something like distrust. Maybe revulsion. It's hard to tell, the candlelight isn't helping.

"It’s like… you broke him. And he’s just not the same.”

"... So what you're saying is, you want me gone?"

"Of course," says Seven matter of factly. “I want Dad to be happy again.”

Silence falls upon the table.

”When I was little, I didn’t get to eat ice cream, or read books, or run around wherever I wanted. I was always downstairs, and I always…”

Seven pauses.

“I love Dad a lot,” Seven goes on, head tilted, his vacant eyes boring into Monday’s core, “But I’ve always wanted to see if I was better than his kids. ‘cause you and your brother and your sister? You guys had it easy. Just cause he _chose_ you. I’ve always wanted to know if you and I are the same, if you have nothing and I have nothing. If I take everything you have. Then it’ll finally be fair.”

Beside Monday, September has stiffened. He nudges Monday's shoe with his own.

_Time to go._

“We should share, you know. Brothers should share. So I’ll share my _nothing_ with you, even if you don’t share your things with me. So you’ll know how it felt. To have that, _nothing._ To not be _a good kid_ for Dad, until I was fast enough. Strong enough. Pretty enough. And even though I’m the fastest and strongest in Tartarus and I’m so good for him now he still only cares about you.”

His grin is off kilter. Wild.

And all of a sudden, hungry.

"Why're you asking about me, huh. Trying to become my friend? Think it’s like saying _I’m sorry?_  Or are you tryna butter me up so I'll let you off easy? Fat fucking _hope!"_ The last word is so loud and guttural that it echoes. "What do I want? _What do I want?”_ Nobody moves.

"I" breathes Seven, eyes glazed, "am _sick_ of you being Daddy’s favorite. I’ve been playing your game for so long. Now I want you to play _my_ game, my terms, my rules.”

"Perhaps when the sun comes up." Monday’s words are smooth but his eyes are wide, unblinking. _Too dangerous._

He rises, nudging September's arm as he does so. "It's been an absolute pleasure. Come on, Septie, let's go —”

Everything in Seven crystallises into a single point.

The pieces are finally tumbling into place behind his black, black eyes.

And his gaze slowly, sinuously, travels towards _Septie_ Redmond.

 _"Sept,_ " Monday says, correcting his mistake. "Let's go."

When Monday tugs on September's arm, Seven stands. Leaning heavily on the table, on the brink of lunging straight over it.

Over the tinkling of silverware, September murmurs, _“Stop. Just let me talk to him.”_

Monday doesn't respond. Gently, he eases September behind him. _Don’t you dare._

"Steven, darling." A last-ditch effort. "You're getting off track here."

Seven's eyes follow September, then slide up to Monday's.

A faint exhale hisses through his teeth. Waiting. It's like talking to a rabid dog. A venomous snake coiled in the grass. A dragon, starved.

Monday's hands are outstretched, waiting, placating. Slowly, he steps on September's toe with his heel. Presses down hard.

_Go._

And when September doesn’t move, casts just the briefest glance over his shoulder.

_I swear I can fix this. Trust me. Please._

Silence, then _"Meet me outside,"_ soft enough only for Monday to hear.

September turns and runs.

Several things happen at once after that. Seven vaults across the table, sneakers knocking over the china and silverware. Heading straight for the fleeing cop. But faster than a flash, Monday's in his way.

The two chosen ones slam into the dining table, Seven on the bottom, cake smearing across his black tank. Seven swings back with a knife in his fist and Monday only barely ducks out of the way in time. Then a plate. A fork. Another knife.

And then, with an angry screech of tires across tarmac, the house shudders.

The chandelier above them clinks like falling glass, shards of light and shadow racing across the dining table and all its ruined food, across Seven as he grips Monday's collar, pulls him close.

"What. Did. You do!"

"Nothing! God! Chill, Steven darling, no wonder Daddy never lets you outside."

And he reaches down and bites Seven in the hand, knees him wherever it hits —

and books it out of there. Breathing hard and fast, to where the miracle has landed.

He sees September struggling ahead of him. When September turns a corner, Monday turns around another —

blocking Seven's line of vision with his body and taking him off course. Monday knows the maze of Tartarus and can only hope that September knows to head towards the noise.

Another crash as Seven skids into something behind Monday. He’s taken the bait—

And a heartbeat later, Monday's slammed face first into a wall with a heavy hand on his neck. His arm twisted behind him. Seven's heavy breathing right in his ear.

"I really. Reallyreally want to fuck you up. So fucking bad." His fingers tighten — "But I'll settle for your darling _Septie_ instead."

"Hit it where it _hurts,_ why don't you?” Monday gasps, once he can, “The guts, the balls, anywhere. _Coward."_

And Seven _drops_ Monday.

Stumbles back a step. Horrified. Mortified.

Unsure.

His throat bobs.

Monday wastes absolutely no time in slipping out of his grasp. Running down the corridors, taking every extraneous turn, listening out for the footsteps behind him. But none come.

A turn. And another.

The muffled yelling and crash of wooden crates become louder and louder. He rounds the final corner.

And Seven's waiting at the top of the marble staircase.

Behind him in the foyer, other than the two unconscious lackeys slumped against the wall there’s only one thing out of place: the great main door, ajar, the desert nighttime soaking in cold and dry.

There's nothing for it —

Monday bounds onto the banister past Seven and slides down without a pause. Hitting the ground and hurtling towards the main door.

_Sept made it. He must have._

"Seven? What are you—?"

The rest is drowned out as Monday flings the main door open.

Outside — absolute chaos.

An entire truck of cocaine, tipped over and spilled all over the ground. Miscellaneous lackeys running and yelling all over.

… And September, struck dumb, staring. _This is our ride?_

But Monday knows better. There are more vehicles in the average convoy. At least one will be waiting.

"Take _one more step, Tomorrow,—”_

Monday knows that voice. He knows that edge _,_ knows that if he so much as _tries_ to test his luck—

“Monday!” September’s a few paces ahead, his silhouette backlit by white clouds and glaring floodlights. “Come on!”

— and oh his whole body freezes at that _voice._

“Come back in, Morrow.” (“Dad, I can take him—”) “Now, son. You know better.”

He can’t move.

_“Monday!”_

Not until September rushes back for him. One scarred hand firmly around Monday's wrist, hauling him out from the amber light stretching from Tartarus’ main door, into the powdery darkness beyond. His grip unyieldingly tight.

And so it is that Monday has no choice in the matter.

They run, September leading, around the vehicular carnage that is the drug truck and towards the lights dancing in the distance — the lighted eyes of other convoy cars.

But naturally, September lags. Soon it's Monday running abreast, then pulling ahead.

By the time the first car comes into view, it's too late.

There's Seven, loping through the floodlights — they catch the white powder sloughing from his clothes and hair. Black hair, pallid skin, motes of dust hovering around him, he’s like a ghost — he isn't even bothering to run, right now. He knows they can't outrun him.

“Where are you going, _brother?”_ His voice is soaked through with glee. “Daddy misses you.”

When they turn, he grins like his whole face is alight.

He pounces.

 

And like a hero, like a fool, September pushes Monday forward as Seven falls upon him.

 

Like a hero, like a fool, Monday turns away from his last chance out of here because September can't fend off that threat alone.

Because it should've been him locking arms with Seven, his other brother. Because he should've seen this coming; it hadn't even been an arm's length.

But all he can take is one step, because a ruthless grip around his waist and chest lifts him clear out of the light.

Braxten.

There's only time for one last look back at September — His detective, pinned down, eyes bright with only triumph and hope, like this was his calling, what he was thrust into this godforsaken mangle of death to do —

before Seven swings his fists and fastens hands around his bruised neck and rocks him against the tarmac, _oncetwice,_ and September stops fighting.

before Monday's pushed deep into the trunk of an unfamiliar car, Braxten looking down at him with one hand on the door, as grim as she must've been when she put a bullet into the skull of a dying cop.

before the night sky — dusted with stars like priceless jewelry, like spilled drugs, like shards of finest china — falls away

and there is only darkness.


	29. Chapter 29

Monday has never been the child in the trunk before.

He sure cries like one.

Less, though. Because unlike the child, he knows no one will hear him.

 

The journey isn't longer than from Conrad to Tartarus, but the car doesn't stop for food, and only briefly for gas.

Or what Monday assumes is gas.

Monday sleeps for none of it.

 

The trunk opens to another night sky. The stars have shifted — they've mostly disappeared.

The trunk opens to Monday's bright blue eyes equally open — a little dry, a little swollen, peering up and sideways through matted hair at... someone he isn't sure he knows.

"You're not Ten," he says. It sounds a little dessicated.

"I... am not," says the man holding up the trunk door, almost apologetically. "But she _is_ capable of snapping me in half, so."

He extends a hand to help Monday out. Soft hair flattened on one side from hours of driving. Kind but weathered brown eyes. And the knowledge not to touch someone who's fragile, not unless they accept help first.

"Let's get you out of here. I'll make you hot cocoa and clean you up a little."

Monday blinks, bleary-eyed. "And... you are...?"

"Hartwell," says the man patiently. "Hartwell Portsman."

His voice is so soothing. Clearly he's had practice.

"Or, as they say in Tartarus, I'm the final hour."

"Twelve."

Tartarus’ cleanup man. Whatever passed through his hands would be washed and wrung dry — records, paperwork, names and faces of a thousand children.

Monday has heard many things about Twelve. He’s never known the face behind the number, but he reaches out anyway— What does he have to lose?

"Nice to know that death is kind," he says.

And Twelve's gaze merely softens. "So it is. Especially to the wretched ones."

Twelve's grip is firm as Monday climbs out of the car. The trunk's a lot deeper than it looks — a secret compartment, sealed by a padlock nestled behind a cooler and some blankets.

They're a ways out from town, crickets and frogs slowly beginning to sing now that Twelve cuts the engine. It smells like spring and life, things Tartarus never smelled of. A firefly weaves through the hedge lining the house, an old brownstone carefully weathered to keep away nosy visitors.

Nowhere as grand as the desert house, and much smaller, but it bears a certain regal elegance from having been forgotten by the rest of the world.

Twelve beckons Monday towards the house. There's nothing to do but follow.

 

It's quiet inside.

Books and clothes, a pair of unwashed cups, unmade couches. A dial radio humming on the table. A yellowed book (Nietzsche’s _Beyond Good and Evil,)_ with a slip of paper wedged between the pages.  

Torn and crumpled clothes, face wrung out from the ride, Monday looks like hell. Even if Twelve notices, he doesn't say a thing. Perhaps he's seen worse. Though even if he hasn't, it doesn’t seem to matter.

Monday’s led to a room on the second floor, across from Twelve's. Watercolor paintings of sunsets and fruits mark its status as a guest bedroom. But there's a fresh set of clothes laid out, white cotton shirt and a cozy fleece jumper, and a toothbrush is sure to be waiting for him in the adjoining bathroom.

"I shouldn't stay here."

Twelve smiles, just faintly. "Braxten did say you were a right piece of work, and now I see why."

Maybe it's the age, or his long-sightedness — a pair of reading glasses is nestled in his front pocket, though he can't be more than forty — but his kind eyes are perfectly unreadable.

"If you must leave, at least stay the night. But if you stay, and this I unabashedly implore of you, you'll find your goals align with that of everyone in this house."

Monday blinks. "And who would that be?"

"Me. And my housemate." He pauses and says fondly, “And my new boss. But it's three in the morning, and I told them not to wait up.”

"Yeah, like this old _fuck_ gets to tell 'is kids that it's bedtime."

There's a boy slouching past the doorway with a towel around his neck, pink hair soaked and flattened against his scalp.

Looking at Monday like... nothing, really. Just like another one of his customers.

"Except you. Go the fuck to sleep, you look like shit."

“Go to bed, Fort,” Twelve says with open exasperation. “And blow dry your hair or you’ll catch cold.”

Doesn’t seem to matter, Fort’s already shuffling off to the other bedroom along the corridor. It’s audibly clear that he's wearing fluffy slippers a size too big.

Monday stares after Fortnight with incredulity.

"New boss, huh."

They both know he doesn't mean Fortnight.

"Mhmm, it’s a pleasant change of pace. No paperwork, for one thing. Though I can’t help wonder how it’s like brewing coffee and making drinks for a living.”

"I'd love to know myself." He quirks an eyebrow at Twelve. "Planning a career change?"

"Who knows. Maybe I'll train to become a social worker. For now," he gestures into the room, "Just unwind a little. I'll be right back with drinks."

While Twelve ambles down to the kitchen, Monday forgets to sit while he's gone, or do anything, really. If he allowed himself to think, he would shatter.

And when Twelve returns with a cup of cocoa and a blueberry muffin on a tray, Monday’s still standing in the doorway staring at nothing.

Twelve sighs, then takes out a first aid kit from a box under the bed. "Can you let me help you? You have a bruise on your forehead and." He gestures at his cheek. "You're scratched up pretty bad."

"What—?"

Oh, he is in pain.

"Okay."

He approaches.

Sitting on the chair beside the bed, Twelve studies him — checking for any more injuries, nothing more, nothing less.

Wipes Monday's hair and face clean of dust and dirt — the purple face towel he uses comes away with a patch of white -- and then carefully treats the scrapes, the deep bruise.

"I'm going to apply some antiseptic now, it's gonna hurt just a little, okay? And then I'll put the gauze on, and we're done."

"Okay," Monday says again.

He barely winces under Twelve's hands, even when the iodine goes on.

It is done. Monday says, "Thank you."

Twelve says, "You're welcome."

Neither of them move for a bit.

Then Twelve goes on, “Would you like to sit?”

Monday looks at the bed. Small, squat, without character. He sits stiffly.  Unlike the one in Tartarus, there isn't much give to the mattress.

"Why am I here?" he asks.

Twelve takes a while to gather his thoughts.

"I've lived here twenty years, never been found. This place is erased from the rest of the world. Braxten traded her spot here for you. Rather..." he hesitates, just a little. "She told me to expect two newcomers."

"I see." Monday looks straight ahead. "I would've thought she'd take the other one."

"She did plan for both of you to come. Maybe there simply wasn't enough time to choose." Twelve slides the first aid kit back under the bed. “Ten does not mind cutting her losses."

"Maybe."

He trails off.

"Twenty years. That's a long time."

"Mhmm. Served Decade from right in my den, and he thought I was in Cuba. Or Oslo. Or Italy. Or Bangkok. Twelve's a traveler."

He looks like the perfect homebody.

"I like this place. It's quiet. On some days there's fog, and rabbits come out. Sometimes, if they're used to me, they'll let me feed them apples."

"Sounds nice. And Ten was here?"

"Not yet. She wants to keep it her special nirvana, whatever that means. I offered her a place in exchange for some intel years ago."

"And she gave that up," says Monday, redundantly, "for me."

He sits on those words.

Twelve knows better than to reply to that. Instead he says, "You're in shock. But I need you to eat and drink something. We've been on the road almost a day."

And it’s like Monday notices the cocoa on the tray for the first time.

He tilts the mug to his lips —

And immediately has to put it down, wipe his mouth with a trembling hand, trying his best to hold back a cough.

Twelve straightens in alarm. Before he can say anything Monday says, "I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I-I’m,” Monday clears his throat with difficulty. “I’m fine. Sorry.”

He accepts the face towel Twelve offers him and cleans off the back of his hand.

"The cocoa's good. Thank you."

It’s clear Twelve will get nothing more from him.

"Rest. Let me know if I can do anything else for you.”

He gets up and heads for the door.

Barely a second later there’s a hitched breath from behind him, choked around tears.

Monday’s hands are on his thighs, the dirtied towel clenched between whitened, shaking knuckles. He’s tight all over as he fights every stray heave of his shoulders.

Still staring at nothing.

Wordlessly, Twelve comes over and wraps one arm around Monday's shoulders and pulls him into a hug, his hand going to stroke Monday's hair.

“Shh,” he soothes, “It’s alright.”

Monday lets himself cry.

It's a few minutes before he's able to get a word out.

"Sorry," he whispers again.

"It's alright, it's perfectly alright.”

"I—” Monday swallows another sob. “...I fucked up. I fucked up so bad."

Twelve just strokes circles down Monday’s back.

“What’s wrong?” He asks after a while.

Monday just shakes his head. The words don't come, not now, not even after minutes pass.

“It’s alright,” Twelve says again.  

Monday does not nod in return. He can't.

But he does stop crying eventually.

He finds Twelve standing up again, pushing a cup of water into his trembling hands.

Twelve says, “Let’s talk about all this in the morning. It’ll be alright.”

"It's fine," Monday says, on reflex.

No meaning behind the words.

And again, "Thanks."

And bravely, "Good night."

Twelve doesn’t move. Gazing at Monday where he sits, curled in on himself. But he knows better, and lets it go.

“Good night. Get some sleep. I’m just across the hall if you need me.”

And then, once again, Monday is alone.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic descriptions of wounds, body horror.

Monday does not move from where he's slumped on the bed, not until the sun comes up. Even then he doesn't move, doesn't sleep, doesn't even think, not until he hears utensils clinking against porcelain. Muffled voices soaking through the wooden floorboards.

And then, it takes the sun burning a square patch of heat on his back before he finally heads downstairs, for breakfast.

Apparently breakfast at the Portsman household is a lively affair. Humble homecooked food. Pancakes and syrup, egg scrambled or sunny (burned), more of those blueberry muffins, cereal.

Twelve waves him over. "Hey. Just in time. I saved you some food."

Fortnight he already met. He's got his hair crudely slicked back, determinedly working through a stack of pancakes.

Yesterday's on his left, holding his utensils dumbly, so many emotions running through his eyes.

At the head of the table sits someone Monday hasn't seen before. He knows because you don't forget someone like that.

He's about Twelve's age, but unlike Twelve who looks much younger, he seems to have aged years beyond. He wears a loose, buttoned shirt that seems devoid of all colour, with a crumpled collar and creases all down the front — and a right sleeve folded and knotted up into nothing. His hair falls in sloppy, uncut curls across his forehead — and a tangle of scars running from cheek to jaw to neck.

He looks up, and Monday flinches — one of the man's cheek is permanently sunken, skin stretched unevenly across bone —

— and his blind, milky right eye stares unrelentingly at him.

Fortnight, who's been engaging the man in a spirited conversation of don't-pour-your-coffee-on-your-pancakes-you-fucking-animal, knows when to shut up.

"So Tomorrow arrives at last," says the man Monday doesn't know.

Monday struggles to keep a blank face.

"I don't believe I know you.”

"I'm sure you do," the man bares a joyless, terrifying smile. "They love to tell my story."

"Let's cut him some slack, shall we? Monday just went through a lot, and he didn't know he was going to be here until last night." Twelve has a calming hand on the man's left arm.

_ That's just the way he is, _ is the look in Twelve's eyes.  _ He doesn't mean any harm. _

"Monday?" The man doesn't sound impressed. "That a new order? Daddy changed his naming tastes?"

"Uh, no. I…"

Monday looks away. The man's gaze is hard to hold. "It's mine."

The man snorts. "And that's the best you could do? Use your own name, why don't you? I know you have one —"

_ "Oi."  _ Fortnight flicks the man's fork and its shoddily-impaled piece of pancake falls off. "Let the guy sit down, grandpa."

Monday stares at Fort. It's really true that the boy isn't scared of anything.

He slides into the only available seat — directly opposite from the one-armed man, who's making quick work of his pancakes, dissecting and poking them with a single fork and shoving them into the fuller side of his mouth.

"So, boy," says the man. "You remember now? Anything jolts your memory?"

"Just fucking tell him, old man," says Fort.

"Let the old man entertain himself, boy. I'm making conversation."

It's an odd sort of malice, running under his words. There's no fire in it. Like watered-down liquor.

Yesterday's the only one trying not to attract any attention by not moving a muscle.

Twelve cuts in, "You both need to calm down or I'm bringing some soap here to wash out those potty mouths right in front of our guest."

It looks like the man wants to say something else. Before the man can spill any coffee gesturing at Monday, Twelve smoothly intercepts his coffee mug and pours the rest of it over the pancakes. Then confiscates the bottle of maple syrup from Fortnight with a firm  _ "No more," _ not flinching when the boy flips him the bird and swears around a mouthful of bacon.

Then, pleasantly, like none of this chaos is happening, "Monday, I hope you like pancakes? Yesterday helped make them."

"I'm sure they're delicious." Monday meets Yesterday's eyes for the first time.

He isn't sure what to do. Yesterday sneaks a glance at him, and all Monday sees there is pity. They both look away immediately after. 

To the one-armed man — "I'm sorry, I can't quite recall. I wasn't in Tartarus for very long."

"Hmm? Didn't stay to chit-chat?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I'm sure you at least met your old man," says the man, fixing him with his unseeing eye. "And your old man's favourite."

Twelve sounds strained when he says, "You’re putting Monday in a spot."

"Please, he's a smart boy. See? He gets it."

And it's clear. The cogs click together behind Monday's eyes.

"Seven," he says to himself. Then, to the man, "He never said you died."

"Oh, I did," says Nine. "Do I look alive to you?"

"Fucking drama queen," mutters Fortnight.

"Why don't you try losing an arm some time, then we can talk."

"I don't fucking lose my arms 'cos I'm not a sloppy-ass old man."

"You ran off to your little  _ coffee shop," _ spits Nine, "before Seven even came out of his hole."

_ "Fuck _ you."

"Mr. Nine," Monday cuts in, before things get too poisonous. "Do I call you anything?"

"Just Nine will do." His jaw is set, or at least what's left of it. "The less of two evils, really. The name I earned. Not the name I was given."

Monday understands.

"Here we go," mutters Yesterday almost inaudibly, as Twelve looks up from a deep drink of his coffee. It might as well be vodka.

Twelve sighs imperceptibly. "Better to be treated for our humanity than our deeds, which were forced on us. Names are all we have."

"You've got another name, don't you?” Nine shoots back, “Your real name. The one you were born with. You're so high and mighty about it, just  _ use _ it, why don't you?"

It's an old argument, one Monday knows Nine has seen many times. He's not sure if he saw right -- just the slightest hard edge in Twelve's (Hartwell's?) eyes. It faded too quick to tell.

"Oh,  _ that's _ right," Nine continues, when Twelve doesn’t reply. "We don't  _ deserve _ them. Not anymore."

“Neither do I deserve a quiet house and fresh jam with my pancakes either, but here I am. There’s no point letting one man ruin the rest of my existence. No offense," he says to Monday.

Everything feels a little hollow.

Twelve clears his throat, addressing Monday. "Since we have just about  _ chewed this topic into ribbons,”  _ he says, and Nine grumbles in his throat, “How should we address you?"

It's unclear if Twelve chose those words on purpose, but he doesn't seem the kind to make mistakes like that.

“Monday’s fine.” Yesterday cuts in softly. “I think it suits him.”

Monday finds himself looking at Yesterday again, surprised. It's hard to tell if it's a good surprise or not.

“Thank you,” is all he can say.

In the following silence Twelve levers a pancake onto Monday's plate, and he takes a bite. 

”Oh,” he can’t keep his face straight. “It’s good.”

"Fuck yeah it is," Fortnight says, openly smirking —  he's proud of his barista.

"Yeah," echoes Monday.

Looks tentatively at Yesterday.

Smiles.

"Thanks."

And just like that, Yesterday's expression crumples. All the heavy years just melting away.

It's just pancake, but Yesterday must've had a lot more riding on it than he let on.

When he looks up, he's smiling too. The shadow in his gaze has retreated a little, for now, and they both can almost pretend they're laughing over the first time Yesterday nearly set the kitchen on fire. Like the oblivious, carefree kids they never really got to be.

Like they're brothers again.

"Yeah," says Yesterday.

Monday's smile grows as wide as it could be, given the circumstances.

"So what brings you here, Mr Monday?” asks Nine. “I hear you had grand plans. Killing your father, taking down the whole institution. Fell through, did they?"

"... Yes."

"And now you're here, faking your death?"

The last word's a knife through the gut.

Nine notices, and almost seems to soften.

"Take it easy, boy," he says, gesturing at the pancakes, equal parts sincerity and disdain. "I had plans too. But not everyone gets to live how they want. That's the facts. Get over it."


	31. Chapter 31

Monday finally manages to slip away from the ruckus that is clearing the table of breakfast  _ ("Use both arms and put some backbone into it for christ's sake—" "I'll wash it any way I fucking want old man, I'm not letting your one-handed half-assery fuck over another skillet while I'm here") _ and heads back to his room to waste away the day.

That plan, however, is foiled by Yesterday blocking the stairs. He doesn't look quite as tortured as earlier, but it's obvious he's wanted to talk for ages.

Talking, about anything, is the last thing Monday wants.

But he doesn’t stop as Yesterday folds his hand around his wrist. Leads him to Twelve's den, which is dimly lit and lined with thick carpet. He guides Monday to a little alcove stuffed with beanbags.

They sit. He doesn't look at Yesterday, and Yesterday doesn't look at him either.

Yesterday takes a deep breath and whispers, "What happened?"

_ How are you alive? What did you do all those years you were gone? Weren't you getting close to taking Tartarus down? Why are you on the run now? _

What happened? There's so much choking the air.

Monday doesn't know where to begin. He doesn't want to begin.

"I think he died," he finally says. "I didn't see, I don't know for sure —"

His breath shudders. He can't continue.

"He?..." It takes a while Yesterday to put the pieces together. "You mean, September...?"

"Yeah." The word’s cracked in the middle. "I'm sorry. It was going so well, but Dad had a mole in the force, and —"

"You, he, oh god." Yesterday covers his mouth with a hand, then scrubs his face with his palm. He doesn't look up. “You, you—  _ you know _ what happens to civilians in Tartarus! You… you  _ actually _ brought him—”

"I didn't. We got caught."

Another shame. Monday never gets caught.

"Dad was one step ahead. As usual."

He can barely look at Yesterday. 

They sit in silence for a while. Yesterday rubs the back of one hand against his eyes, and then the other. Over and over. Monday only stares at his fingers, clasped over his lap. 

And then, Yesterday settles. Takes a shaky breath. “We have to tell the others. The plan’s changed.”

“The plan?”

“Yes. With you,” says Yesterday, as Monday’s eyes widen, “and the cop. While you were in Tartarus I was gonna call up Conrad again, and between us we’d take down all the Hours inside and out, and then we’d go rescue you and… I was so sure it’d work.” 

He sniffs. He’s trying to stay composed, though he’s not doing a good job of it. 

“I asked Ten to stall, give me some time so I could get the pieces together, I knew it was a small window, but it was just too fast and I couldn’t pull enough strings—” 

Yesterday’s voice hitches one last time, and his words trail into nothing.

"So you did all that," says Monday after a while. "And I ruined it."

“No. No, it could still—” Yesterday turns to him fiercely. “I rounded up everyone for this plan, and it was  _ gonna work, _ and, and, I got so many of the Hours on board, and… If September’s, if he’s — then, then we still have someone on the inside, we can—” 

Monday realises, those tears in Yesterday’s eyes are of desperation.

"Please tell me September has a chance. I, I know, I know Dad fucked up the last cop that came to Tartarus but… he knows September’s important to you, so he wouldn’t. He wouldn't. He can’t have.”

Still Monday says nothing, and Yesterday’s knuckles whiten.

“I was so sure that… that even if something went wrong Dad would keep you in Tartarus at all costs. So I… I made plans… where… September would escape and, and I would… would be able to — The plan, I was going t-to —…” 

“Use the cop?”

Yesterday looks up guilty, but Monday’s unmoved. “Didn’t we all.”

“Monday,” pleads his brother.

“It’s okay. I know. He was always so important.” Monday almost smiles — it’s grim and humourless. “And yet I couldn’t keep Seven away.” 

Yesterday stills.

“S-... Seven?”

“Yeah.”

“Dad sent him after you two?”

“He… he did. After me.” Monday pauses, drawing a shaky breath. “But Sept pushed me out of the way, and Seven… he doesn’t like things being taken away from him. So he…”

Neither of them speak for a long while.

“…he went after  _ him? _ Dad sent Seven out, but he… went after  _ September?” _

Monday nods.

“He switched targets without permission.” 

Monday nods again, he doesn’t quite get it.

Yesterday’s throat bobs. “Which means… the wrong person’s in Tartarus. Dad’s plans failed because of Seven.”  

Monday looks away, pained.

Yesterday looks uncomfortable, but steels himself. “Tell me about Seven.”

Monday can’t help it, he drops his head into his hands. Digs through his hair. “He’s… he’s fast. He’s so ready to… He’s  _ crazy. _ I don’t know, I can’t, — I  _ just can’t _ understand how he thinks, he, he…”

Monday’s spiralling. 

“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to dig up all these memories while you’re—”

“It’s fine,” says Monday, like a reflex. Head still in his hands. 

Yesterday hesitates.

“It’s  _ fine,” _ says Monday again. He looks up, eyes blank. ”Just ask your questions.”

Yesterday knows he has no other choice.

“You said Seven’s… crazy?”

“Like I told Sept,” says Monday, “Seven only wants to impress. He’ll do anything to get Dad’s attention.”

“But Seven disobeyed direct orders from Decade. That’s foolish…”  

“I’m sure Seven knows.” All his children know. “I guess… Seven does what Seven wants.”

"But Dad doesn't let  _ anybody _ do what they want. Not even... not even us. And we're his favorites."

Yesterday sniffs loudly. But something's getting him back under control — or helping to hide his feelings.

"Why Seven?"

"I don't know." Monday can’t think. “I told you, I don’t understand.” 

Yesterday nods, then takes a deep breath. Monday almost thinks he hears Yesterday whisper  _ Be brave, _ holding the words close, trying to draw strength from it.

"Okay... okay. I think something's wrong. Let’s talk it out, yeah. Yeah?”

Yesterday glances at Monday, who doesn’t move. That doesn’t stop him. 

“Dad liked Seven, but not like us. He wanted Seven to be like a weapon. Do you remember? The creepy boy that Decade kept around as an experiment? We were thirteen then. He slept in the basement, in an unused anteroom."

Monday realises it’s his cue. “...So this means he  _ wanted _ Seven to attack?” he says unhelpfully.

“Maybe. But Decade doesn’t trust Seven. He’s  _ never _ trusted Seven. Not after Seven interrogated a key informant and murdered him. So Dad never gave him sensitive missions again."

Yesterday grips Monday’s hand.

“But now,  _ now, _ Dad’s resorted to using  _ Seven,  _ of all people.”

Monday tries, he honest to god tries, but nothing clicks. “I don’t… I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Seven’s the wildcard he never wanted to rely on. Because with Seven there’s too much he can’t control. He’s not like the other Hours. It’s exactly because he’s crazy.”

“So this is just a different strategy, or?...”

“No. He’s using Seven now,” Yesterday says, “because he’s out of options.”

“He would never—”

“Would never run out of options. You’re right, he wouldn't. But that was the person I knew knew from long ago. He’s at the end of his rope. He’s… getting desperate.” Yesterday says with surprise, like he's shocked by his own words. “Dad’s being  _ careless _ now.”

It's like what Yesterday is saying is new to Monday.  _ Seven's a misplay _ echoes through his mind. Ten saw this coming?

There's a lull, a long one, before Monday shakes his head like he's shaking off a dream. “So… What you’re saying—”

”Yeah,” says Yestie. “This is the chance I've been waiting for."

And Morrow can't say he's seen this Yestie very often. If at all, in fact.

It's almost enough, just about enough, to pierce through the fog around him —

"Really?"

Yesterday nods. Just once, with certainty.

"After Today..." he clears his throat. "When he realised he wanted you rather than her, that's when he changed. A little. You must've known."

_ Because you ran away soon after. _

”Don’t you see, Monday? This is just history repeated, and in the worst way. First his daughter, and now his son—" Yesterday's looking at him like he's the wildest magic trick in the world— "This is the first time Dad's been fooled twice."

"Yeah, that's because you saved me." 

But it seems to be dawning on Monday too. What Yesterday understands.

“You’ve given us one last shot.” Yesterday takes another deep breath and pulls away. 

His eyes are lit from within.

"We gotta tell Twelve." Scrambles up from the beanbag. "Twelve?" Stumbles, but charges towards the door, a boy on a mission. "Twelve!"

He bolts from the room. And then noise: chairs scraping, muffled swears, something shattering, the whole deal.

Except Monday hasn’t followed.

When Yesterday reappears in the doorway, Monday’s still sitting on his beanbag, gazing into space.

“Monday?”

"You go ahead." If there was any brief spark in him before, it's gone now.

“But Monday—”

“I think I’ve done enough.”

There’s no light in Monday’s eyes, and Yesterday hesitates, as he always has, at the threshold of the door, doing nothing. 

It’s a surprise when Yesterday says, “G-Get up.”

Monday nearly says  _ no.  _ But he just looks at him, stares. Yesterday has to use all he has not to shatter under those blank blue eyes.

He slowly comes and kneels before his brother.

Clasps his hand. And Monday winces like he’s fighting every urge to pull away. 

"Every single day." Yestie sounds like a child now. "I regretted hiding in your shadow. Playing dumb so Dad would choose you instead. Being too scared to face up to what I had to do.”

His hand tightens around Monday’s.

“Monday, I — I’m so sorry I wasn’t brave enough to stay by your side.” 

“It’s okay. Things are different now.”

“Yes they are,” Yestie says, giving Monday’s hand the tiniest pull. “So come with me.”

"You go ahead. You can do it, I know you can."

“I know that too,” Yestie says with certainty. “But we’re  _ brothers. _ Dad might’ve wanted us to  _ kill  _ each other for his affection, but — he’s wrong. And I’m not going to leave until you realise you're  _ not. Alone. Any more." _

"I  _ wasn't _ alone!" 

Monday’s head is bowed, teeth clenched. He grips Yesterday's hand like blue murder. Like he's going to fling it away, but he can't.

"And then I  _ fucked _ it up the first chance I got."

He looks up, his eyes like glass. Cracked.

"If you have hope now. I'm not fucking that up too."

“I don’t care about that.”

Yestie’s voice is perfectly measured. Monday’s shattered blue meets only burnished silver.

“I don’t care about your mistakes. It’s always been you building these plans and taking the fall all by yourself — I’m  _ here _ now. Everyone’s here. We have the same goals, we’re going to chip in with the plan, and if we fail we’ll do it  _ together.” _

His words are laden with all the years gone by.  

“So I don’t need you to be perfect. I don’t need you to be a master strategist. You don’t need to save the day, or be the golden boy. To be anything. Because you, just you — you’re more than all that.” 

Monday’s hand, under Yesterday’s, tightens.

“I want you there at the table,” Yestie says, like it’s the only truth that’s ever mattered, “just because I want you.”

_ I want you, Monday. _ He’s heard it so many times before — at the head of a long table, at the threshold of Tartarus where desert night eats the pallid porchlight and freedom is so close and yet not, in bed with starry sheets and heady warmth and the softest kiss against his collarbone —

But it sounds so different coming from Yesterday. As though his words could change every truth Monday's ever known.

He sighs. Then he smiles, despite himself.

"He should have picked you," Monday says. "I'm glad he didn't."

"Me too," replies Yesterday quietly. "I wouldn't have made it as far as you have."

Yesterday's smiling too now, thinly but genuine.

“Shall we?” he asks, running his thumb across the back of Monday’s hand.

And it's that smile which makes Monday give in.

He lets Yesterday pull him up, watches as Yesterday bounds down the corridor with vigour he’s never seen before. It’s taking everything in Monday to follow, but he does. 

  
  
  


But as soon as he's three steps out the door, an arm locks around his shoulders and drags him aside.

"Boy."

"Nine, what —?"

"Your cop. I heard it all."

Silence.

"Say it."

"What —"

"His chances. Yestie asked. You didn't answer."

"I don't know —"

"You do.” 

"No, I don't —!"

"You saw him. Tell me the truth."

"There's— It could be— I don't —"

"Say it."

“No.”

“Say it.”

_ "No —!" _

"Listen to me, boy. I lay here for a year, crying, denying, refusing to accept what happened to me, happened to Eight, what happened to our lives. It does no damn good. You say it, right here and now."

"..."

"Come on."

"...It's true. It has to be."

"What?"

"He's gone."

And again, through tears.

"He's gone."

Nine looks at Monday with colourless, spiteless eyes.

He does not say  _ Good.  _ There's nothing good about this.

Yesterday, looking back, knows not to interrupt them.

"That's it," says Nine. "Let it out. Let it go."


	32. Chapter 32

_Time is meant to flow._

Separated from the living, amidst a grove of trees in the path of a dried riverbed, the house earned the name Asphodel.

_It rises and runs, and then it falls. Each measure was given a name and a place and a face, like the tides, or the seasons — and once its purpose was served it was to rejoin the threads from which it came, and be forgotten. Such was the law of the days, and the months, and the years. Such was the truth no truer to those who joined the ranks of the passing hours._

The rites were Twelve's idea, but he did not name the house. Nobody did, though they must've certainly thought it.

_We do not keep our families, or our homes, or our humanity. We exist as transients, to be erased. We knew this curse and chose to shoulder it._

Twelve gives the hour's eulogy behind the house, standing before wooden planks that rise out of the milkweed. One for each faded hour, marked with nothing more than their number and name, if he knew it. He speaks as if they listen, though there have never been remains beneath the dirt. There likely never will be.

_Once in a blue moon, there are others who didn't choose this lot. The ones who deserved to live full lifetimes, away from the tow of the river Styx, or the seeking eye of Minos, far away from Tartarus. Alas, time cares little for the plights of man._

Twelve kneels beside the only other marker without a number. _Mallory_ is carved into its surface, and a revolver half buried at its base. The air is still and not a bird sings, and only Fortnight and Yesterday are there to watch Twelve secure the newest wooden plank nearby. Yet to be bleached by the weather or covered in moss, September's marker is out of place.

"I never thought," says Twelve gently, "that we would have any more than hours in our midst."

He gives the damp soil around it one last firm pat and stands. His hands are caked with mud.

 _There is little we can do to revoke the rules of time,_ says Twelve, _but until then, we will be content with remembering. Even if the world forgets. Even if Tartarus rids of you._

_There will be a place for you in the hearts of those who live here._

 

"Who's Mallory?" says Fortnight.

He's never been good with these formal, weepy, rite-y things. It's already taking most of his effort not to swear.

"A cop. He died in Tartarus years ago." Twelve dusts the soil off his hands. "Ten killed him as an act of mercy."

The dirt clings to him, and he flicks his hands with a click of his tongue. The first real sign of irritation Fortnight has ever seen from him.

"Damn."

Well, he tried to be polite.

"Decade kept a cop? What for?"

Beside him, Yesterday's body shivers just the littlest bit. Even though his eyes are still firmly set on September's marker.

"I remember Mallory," he says blankly. "Mallory Vinters.”

Twelve gives Yesterday a surprised glance. "Mallory Vinters? I'll add his last name in."

As Twelve goes to crouch beside Mallory’s marker, Yesterday continues for Fortnight’s benefit. “He found a shipment of AKs and sniffed. Then got too close. Made a big deal out of it. The FBI got involved. So Decade trapped him. To teach Eleven — Elenor, back before Ven — to be careful."

"Fucked up," drawls Fortnight. "Usual kind of fucked up, but fucked _up."_

Fortnight, hands stuffed urgently in his pockets, looks at Yesterday.

"You alright?"

Yesterday jerks his head. "I'm... Yeah. Yeah yeah. I'm, yeah."

"Hey." Fortnight squeezes Yesterday’s arm. "It'll be fine."

"You really think so?"

Yesterday's voice is very small. The kind of voice reserved for when he's setting a new blend of coffee in front of Fort for the first time. Or when he asks Fort to help treat a burn. Or, evidently, when he's thinking about becoming just another marker in a forgotten patch of land.

"I know that's what you're fuckin' supposed to say. But yeah."

And Fortnight's just the same way he always is, all the time.

"I think so."

Yesterday laughs, just once. He takes Fort's hand. "Yeah."

And with one last glance at the wooden markers lets Fortnight lead him back into the house.

 

Twelve finally finishes the last letter on Vinters' name and straightens.

"They're gone, probably to use Nine's coffee maker without permission again. You can come out now."

Monday appears, of course. Several strides behind Twelve, gazing at the new marker.

"Ten told me about Vinters," he says. "Said he was begging to die."

"His was a wretched existence. Everyone in Tartarus pitied him. Even I did, when I heard the stories. But you know how it is. Nobody would defy their orders."

Laboriously, Twelve lowers himself and sits. The way he moves he could've lived a thousand lifetimes.

"Tartarus,” he goes on, “is not kind to the keepers of Elysium."

"Oh."

There’s a sparrow, perched in the last line of trees. Monday’s eyes find it immediately. Noticing his gaze, Twelve looks over as well.

"Bird," Monday says, softly. "Are there a lot of them?"

"That's a chipping sparrow. Usually more this time of day. I always tell Nine they know when we're having a sombre moment. He doesn't believe me."

"I believe you."

The sparrow looks around at nothing. It seems calm.

Monday turns his gaze, with effort, back to the markers.

"Am I... Should I do anything...?"

"You can,” replies Twelve. “I think the deceased know to look past our actions, towards the intentions beneath. But I also think rites like these are also about closure."

He rises to his feet and steps away. September's marker comes into full view. Monday freezes.

"I... don't know what to do."

Silence.

Twelve says, “Yesterday said the same thing when he came here a few days ago.”

Monday looks at him sharply, and Twelve simply nods towards an empty space amidst the markers — where a white piece of wood stands, a thin tendril of wildflowers curling around it.

Bright, bright yellow flowers, stretching towards the sun.

“He seemed lost. Sad too, just like you.”

“We never got the chance to process it… it all happened so fast.” Monday wraps his arms around himself. “I miss her.”

“I know you do. She was a good sister, and took care of you and Yesterday both. Even despite her wild streak.”

“Yeah,” Monday chokes around a laugh. “She had one.”

They look at the marker and its sunny blossoms.

“Dad always said it was why. That it would kill her some day.” The words come through gritted teeth. “I should’ve known he would… she didn’t deserve to—”

He stops abruptly, his knuckles flushing white.

“Yesterday blames himself too,” Twelve says into the long silence, “For not being able to see the signs.”

“It’s obvious now, looking back.” Monday’s gaze is distant. “It’s like she was in a different world. She thought so differently from us. I could never figure out what she… she always knew what was wrong with our family. She knew, and she believed…” Monday exhales. “She was the best thing to ever come out of Tartarus.”

_And Decade couldn’t let that happen._

“And you’re trying to shoulder her fallen yoke,” says Twelve.

Monday laughs again, bitter. His shoulders shaking just a little. “I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

“You don’t have to.” Twelve folds his arms loosely. “Yestie would’ve told you himself, but he can’t find the words. He says you’re just being hard on yourself...”

“I could have saved him,” Monday says abruptly. “I could have saved Sept.”

Twelve nods and waits.

“We were running. We were going to get out. But Seven was there, with Dad...” Monday swallows. “And at the main door I just. Couldn’t move.”

“Because Decade was there?”

“No.” He says it like it’s the utmost shame. “Because I made a mistake. Because I made _so many_ mistakes. And this was the biggest and it was just getting worse and worse and… I didn’t… know what to _do.”_

Monday’s closed up again, trembling, regretting. Twelve watches him.

“Knowing what to do,” says Twelve, “is a comforting thought. In actuality, however… nobody truly knows for sure. Not knowing is humanity’s greatest fear, and rightly so. Normal people never know what to do — and that is its own agony.”

Monday only replies, “We’re not normal.”

“No we are not,” Twelve says gently, “Having gone through we have, it’s a wonder we’re still here at all. We think differently, act differently, we’ll never fit in completely. We’re just _too different._ But one thing I know is that we share the same…” he gestures slightly as he searches for the word, “heart, or soul, or spirit, call it what you may — underneath our crooked ways and deplorable pasts, we will always _feel_ the same things they do. At our very core, all we want is to be understood, and accepted… And maybe for some people, to be loved, or forgiven.

“All of us are scared little children, deep down. And we don’t like feeling that way, being scared, so instead we turn to anger, or spite, or bitterness. We accuse and criticize…”

He comes up to Monday and puts his hand on Monday’s shoulder.

“And we blame ourselves, when there’s really no right or wrong to what needs to be done.”

He’s fully aware of Monday going stiff under his hand. But he still squeezes just once.

“You were afraid. You’re just being human, like all of us.”

Silence.

“It’s not your fault,” Twelve says more bluntly this time, casting a sidelong look at Monday. “Understand?”

Monday doesn’t, but he nods anyway.

In the corner of his vision, the sparrow’s now perched on marker _4,_ furthest away from them. Fluffing its feathers, bobbing its head absently, gazing with one beady eye.

“I miss them,” Monday finally says. “They didn’t deserve any of this.”

Twelve stays silent, because he understands. Eventually, he replies, “It’s no good thinking about things we deserve, Monday. That notion will eat you alive before anything from Tartarus does." He sighs, just slightly. “And even so, death can be kind."

“Don’t say that.”

Something’s cleared in Monday’s gaze, crystallised into something harder.

“We end Tartarus,” he says.

Twelve studies Monday, taking his time. His eyes, as usual, betray nothing.

“There’s a reason you’re here now,” Twelve says, “And I’m grateful.”

He gestures to the house. _After you._

Monday nods at Twelve’s gesture, but his eyes drifts over once again to the newest marker in the grass.

“You go ahead.”

Twelve gives Monday a pensive look, then relents. "Come back in soon.”

Then he trods back to the house and the door shuts behind him.

It’s quiet now, in the way nature is never quiet. Insects chirping, branches creaking, wind sifting through the leaves.

“I’m sorry,” Monday says to the marker. “I thought I could fix this, and I thought I was the only one and… I should’ve had more faith in you. You’re such a _stupid dumbass_ but I should’ve just trusted you, and I… Oh, Septie, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You were the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Monday breathes in, it shudders. He wipes his eyes, one at a time.

“It wasn’t your fight. It never was,” he says quietly. “But thank you, Septie. Thank you. For everything.”

He’s out of words. The clouds drift in the sky as he waits, for a response that won’t come.

But the sparrow appears again. It hops through in the grass around September's marker, staring up at Monday curiously.

"Hey," whispers Monday, crouching with his hand outstretched.

But the sparrow flies away, as most sparrows do.

Monday winds up kneeling in the grass, staring at the marker.

He stays there for a while.

 

 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

The man at the bar looked up. He’d clearly seen better days. “What. Me?”

“Of course you. You’re the most handsome guy in this room.”

The man snorted and turned back to his drink. He had such lovely maroon eyes, like fine red wine.

“You’re new,” said Red. “Haven’t seen you around these parts before.”

“Oh, I come and go. Wanderlust, you know — the world’s got _so_ much to offer! And it’s so easy now with Google Maps, Yelp, Trivago, what have you. Everything’s just a button away.”

He took a seat beside Red, resting his elbows on the bar.

“One more for him,” Red said to the bartender.

Manners. A plus.

Gin on the rocks. Decent taste. Another big plus.

“Trying to forget something, huh?” He nodded at the cluster of empty glasses beside Red.

“Aren’t we all,” replied Red with a smile. He knocked back another drink. “After the tenth drink,” he said, with some pride, “it’s like I was never here.”

“Ten drinks? Already? It’s just after midnight—”

“It’s my thirteenth,” said Red. “My shitty hangover and missing memories are Tomorrow Me’s problem. I’m here to unwind.”

“So am I, actually.” He tilted his glass back — _goodness, he wasn’t expecting a sipping gin_ — tried not to cough, and leaned his head on his hand.

“Aren’t we all,” said Red again. “Man, you have really nice blue eyes.”

“Thank you,” replied Blue. Red was staring at him… like he’d never seen the color blue before. “Stop it, you, you’re going to make me blush.”

“Look, I’m just saying. I’ll forget everything by the time—” Red held up a hand, taking a deep breath. Steadying himself, or holding back an ugly belch. “You know, there, uhhh… there are rooms in the back.”

“My, so forward! We haven’t even been on a first date yet!” Blue couldn’t help but find him amusing. This guy really was every definition of _drink up and dick down._ “And I’m not sure you’re the most trustworthy of guys —”

“I’m the hottest guy in the room,” Red countered.

“The most _handsome,”_ corrected Blue.

“The handsomest.” Red turned to look at him. “You don’t get out often, huh.”

“I do! I’ve got _circles_ upon social circles. But I must say… you’re pretty much my type…” Blue swooned dramatically — and Red actually _bought it,_ swelled a little with pride. It was too endearing to resist. “Strong jaw. Nice face. Broad shoulders. Arms and thighs that could crush a watermelon—”

“They can’t. I’ve tried,” said Red. “I think it’s because they’re round.”

Blue snorted, but he was smiling. “See? Handsome all around. You probably have abs I could slice things with.”

Red rolled his eyes.

“It’s such a pity the night’s still young. I was kinda thinking of getting some air, getting to know the place a little better… Conrad’s a pretty nice district, you know? The lampposts are _adorable,_  and the city square looks so gorgeous when the sun’s down. Those shiny new malls… and I hear there’s a farmers’ market too, on some weeks? So maybe I’ll give you a call some other time, and we can make arrangements—”

The rest of it was lost to a gasp as Red clasped his collar and pulled him in for a kiss — he moved like a succubus, and Blue couldn’t help but get dragged into his rhythm, giving to the touches of those strong hands, getting lost in those ruby eyes—

“You talk too much,” said Red, matter-of-factly, after they finally pulled apart with flushed cheeks and mussed hair and rumpled clothes. And the sight of Mr Red like that — so strong and open and _wanting_ — was just about enough to make Blue grab his tie and haul him off the barstool.

“I stand corrected,” he whispered against the man’s cheek and was rewarded with a sweet little shiver, “You make a very compelling argument.”

 

“Wow,” said Red.

“Indeed,” said Blue.

They were lounging over one of the booth seats, still soaking in the afterglow. Red had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Can’t believe it’s your first time,” said Blue.

“With a man,” added Red with one finger raised. “I can see myself liking this.”

Blue smirked. “Wait till you try taking it up the—”

“No dirty talk,” Red said in a rush. “Please. I don’t think I can manage another round.”

Blue laughed. His face was still heated and his limbs were so loose, draped over the other man’s broad shoulders and that _chest_ — this was perhaps the most relaxed he’d been in years. But perhaps this was why he couldn’t quite hide how swiftly his smile faded, how his gaze quickly drifted elsewhere. Like it’d been doing all night.

“You know,” said Red. “You seem kinda sad.”

“Do I?” An embarrassment, really. How _transparent_ he was tonight.

“I’ve met enough people to know what sadness looks like,” said Red, matter of factly. There was no pity in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think I’ll tell you? You’re just some random stranger in a bar.”

“Exactly,” said Red. For someone drunk off his ass he really could make some lucid arguments. “I won’t even remember a thing. Why not vent a little.”

“I really shouldn’t—”

“What’s the worst that could happen? Like you said, we’re just two random strangers in a bar.” Red shrugged. “We’ll go our separate ways and never meet again. It’s like, the least I can do for you.”

“Mm, I guess you’re right… but where to even begin.”

Blue couldn’t help but lower his gaze.

“You know how it goes. Family issues.” Blue shrugged. “Just an over-controlling father who’s trying to get me to come home, my sister’s out of the picture all-too-suddenly, my older brother’s promoted to branch cafe manager without warning and… I will eventually need to take my father’s place.”

“It’s not anything illegal, is it,” said Red.

“Of all the things!” spluttered Blue, laughing. Red didn’t even have the shame to look embarrassed. “I’m not a murderer, officer.”

Red stared.

“Well,” Red began, digging around in the pockets of his jeans. “If you ever need help… just give me a call.”

He held out a piece of paper — a name card. One of the corners was bent.

_Lieutenant September Redmond, Conrad District Police Force._

Blue kept his face carefully still. “You’re a cop.”

“Tada, surprise,” deadpanned Officer Redmond.

“You know some people have a thing for uniforms. Maybe we could meet up in one of the back alleys, and we can use those handcuffs to—”

_“What did I say about dirty talk.”_

Blue smiled as best as he could. “This is very kind of you, Officer. But I don’t think you should waste your efforts on this.”

“It’s what I enrolled in the academy for,” said Redmond firmly. “I like helping people.”

“How are you _so pure,”_ murmured Blue.

Redmond gave him one of those grins that said he wasn’t at all.

“Anyway, you have my name card, we’ve boned, the tab has been paid, and now I need to get home to suffer for the rest of the night.” Redmond stretched with a groan. “Oh, I’m aching.”

 _“You’re_ aching,” said Blue. “What about me?”

Redmond muttered something incomprehensible and stood up to leave.

Blue watched him. He ached too, deep inside.

“September,” he said softly. The man paused. “Thank you.”

“All in the line of duty.” The officer gave him a wobbly salute, grinning lopsidedly. “You,” he said, jabbing a finger in Blue’s vague direction, “are gonna get home safe, no funny business, I don’t wanna see you in my precinct ever.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And,” said Red, like an afterthought. “I know you’re the secretive type, but… you got a name for me?”

“Mm...” Blue tilted his head, looking down at the crumpled card in his hands —

_Lieutenant September Redmond._

“Call me Monday. Monday Blue.”

And Red laughed like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand we have set up a twitter account, [@DMYverse](https://twitter.com/DMYverse)!! Our friends have drawn lovely arts, which are RTed there, and sometimes we do a thing where we sort characters into memes and even let the characters take over the account for a while, it's good fun. Hope to see you there :D

Considering the circumstances, things could be much worse.

For one thing, enjoying the springtime sunlight while sprawled out in the field beside the nearby riverbed wouldn’t have been something he thought he would ever do, at least not while he was still in Asphodel. It was Yestie’s idea — he stayed up all night baking. Packed the mat and serviettes. Wouldn’t settle until he selected the perfect spot, a clearing of soft grass and wildflowers growing carelessly out a dip in the ground. For some reason, he was fiercely adamant about it.

So here they are. Twelve and Nine sitting shoulder to shoulder as Yestie goes on about conditioner — _look, all I’m saying is that your hair wouldn’t irritate your dry skin so much if you actually did some upkeep_ — Monday’s sitting at the top of a hill nearby, content to let the sound of wind and laughing friends and singing birds wash over him.

He won’t admit it, but this is what he’s needed for a while now, after two months of thinking about nothing but Tartarus, about the remaining Hours, about Seven. Thinking himself into a knot. Wringing himself dry in frustration. The mood at Asphodel had been tense, to say the least, and everyone seemed to cheer considerably just being out here.

Monday supposes Yestie always knew, deep inside, what to do.

“Yo.”

Monday turns. It’s Fort. Earlier he’d slipped away to get a cup of coffee (black like his soul but a marshmallow in his palm) and now he’s slouching over.

“Yo,” Monday replies. He’s never had the chance to speak to Fort personally. “Isn’t it warm? That sweater looks really thick.”

Fort nods and plops down beside him, one careless arm over his outstretched knee.

“Eh,” he says. What a reply. This boy really has a staunch dedication to his sloppy look. He’d be great friends with Robin Banks.  

Monday doesn’t say anything in reply. It doesn’t feel like there’s a need to.

_“Yeah, like it’s a walk to the corner store round the block to pick up Handsfree conditioner — hell, boy, before you arrived some days we didn’t even have hot water.”_

_“Oh… um, i-is that..”_

_“Nine. Stop exaggerating.”_

_“I would if you’d fixed the heater like I asked and asked and asked instead of mucking around in paperwork and complaining about aching bones late at night.”_

Monday lets his head slip down until his chin’s resting on his knees, folded close to him. He never knew wildflowers smelled this sweet —

Fort breaks the silence first. “Hey, uh… You’ve had it rough.”

“Thank you,” says Monday. He knows Yestie told him to say that.

Fort looks relieved. It’s like that’s been weighing on him for so long.

“So,” he goes on, more relaxed, “You’re really gonna go up against your goddamn Daddy after all, huh?”

“Mhmm.” Monday plays with a blade of grass in his fingers. “Not in the way I expected, but I suppose it’s a blessing we’re still here in the end.”

“Oh.”

Fort leans back on his arms, and Monday continues fiddling with the blade of grass between his fingers. There’s a little circle cut out from the side, he wonders what size caterpillar would fit.

“It’s going to be dangerous.”

“Like I don’t fucking know.”

Monday laughs a little. “So this is a paid job for you, then?”

“I’m not paid a single fucking cent for this,” says Fortnight, offended. “But if it’s important to Yestie it’s important to me too.”

_“I’m trying my best, Nine.”_

_“You’re never not doing your best. You’re always overworking. Goddamn addicted old man.”_

_“Mm, have you considered intercourse as an outlet —”_

_“Fuck, boy, the house is noisy enough as is when Twelve’s talking to himself and I don’t wanna hear ah, that’s it, right there —”_

_“I don’t sound anything like that!”_

_“Walls have ears, Twelve, especially if your college dorm is all drywall and so thin you can’t even lean on it.”_

Yesterday’s turned to look at Fortnight, at Monday — Monday shakes his head fondly and Fort puts down his cup, rolls his eyes so far back his head that he’s toppled backwards on the grass. And now Yestie’s doubling over, wiping tears from his eyes as he laughs and laughs —

_“Oh you think this is so fucking funny, boy? Wait till you hear him when he’s out of clean shirts.”_

_“Nine, can you just —”_

Monday says, “You don’t have to come, you know.”

“Course I’m coming,” says Fortnight, from where he’s lying. “Yestie’s fighting too.”

Monday thought as much. “You’re doing this for Yestie?”

 _“Because_ of Yestie.” Fortnight pauses. “No offense. Got nothing personal against the old man, y’know.”

“Of course.”

Fortnight sighs. It’s something like exasperation. “It’s gonna be fine,” he says. “We’ll just burn the nest to the fucking ground and the rats’ll scatter. Easy.”

“Not just that. We have to defeat the rat king first.”

“You ever seen a rat king for real? Fucking nasty stuff. A whole bunch of rats, tails all knotted up and they can’t get out ‘cos there’s hair and blood and poop all stuck in there.”

They both pause to take it in. The sky is so blue overhead, birds chirping merrily in the grove nearby.

“Old man ain’t no rat king,” says Fort.

Monday replies, “I think I have to disagree.”  

“Trust me, street kid. I’ve knifed more rats than you’ve ever seen crawl out of their holes. Decade’s a rat like all the rest of them, just shittier and older.”

“You think so?”

“Shittier, older, dirtier, scared-er, … Y’know. Rat stuff.” Fort’s smirking, Monday can hear it. “So all you gotta do is burn it out. And kill it.”

The blades of grass come apart in Monday’s fingers.

Fort’s a street kid too. He didn’t grow up in Tartarus, that much is obvious, and Monday’s always thought about how two little urchins could turn out so different. Monday with his wits and thievery, and Fort with his guts and knives and no hesitation to use them at all.

Monday wonders what kind of streets Fort was taken from, and whether he’d be strong enough to endure the same.

“Yestie told me you ain’t no murderer.”

Fort’s propped his head up under his arm, gaze flat and grey like an overcast sky.

“Ah…” Monday tries for a laugh, then swallows. “I’m… prepared to change.”  

“You don’t gotta change. You just gotta kill a guy.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Fort frowns. “Oh so now _I’m_ the fucking monster?”

“...Sorry.”

“Well at least it’s a fucking step up from enjoying it like your psycho half-brother! Fuck.” Fortnight blows a stray lock of hair out of his face, faded from the lack of magenta dye in this godforsaken suburb. “Look. You gotta kill a guy. So what? You feel bad. So fucking what? Means you still got a soul.”

“And you don’t?” replies Monday. “You care about Yestie.”

Fortnight doesn’t answer that, but Monday catches the ghost of a smile twitching at his lips.

“You got a reason, right? For pulling the trigger.”

Monday nods.

“Then stop giving a goddamn fuck,” Fort says. “In life you gotta protect what makes you happy. No one can blame you for that.”

"Roger that, sir.” Monday leans back on his arms and tilts his head back to feel the breeze.

Something has settled in him.

“If they do blame you,” Fort goes on, catching him by surprise, “Stab ‘em.”

Monday laughs. “Got it. I’ll do my best.”

 

  
  
"Come next week, half of the Hours will be gone from Tartarus."

This war meeting has been a long time coming. For the last two weeks since the first whispers came in, the sleepy house had slowly begun to wake — buzzing with ideas and plans and the tense anticipation of waiting for the hounds to be released.

And now the sword has fallen — the central team’s gathered around the dining table, curtains drawn with no pancakes to be seen, and Twelve’s standing at the head of the table with his laptop turned to them, grave like an executioner.

"Intel says Decade sent them to Conrad. They’re combing the surrounding districts, trying to track his defectors down.”

Monday and Yesterday exchange glances.

“He’s getting desperate,” Yestie says. Monday sees now, this is what Yestie had seen coming all those months ago. “Which are staying?”

Twelve shakes his head. “I can’t be certain. I only heard Five and Six didn't dare oppose. Six sent me a very strongly worded rant—”

“Fucking Six, man. Who gives a fuck about that bitch.” Fort raps the knuckles on the table impatiently, moving the conversation along. "We got the shit we need, so let's fucking _go_ already. It's about damn time."

"Someone's restless," deadpans Nine from his usual corner. "Like a wonely widdle puppy scwatching at the door."

"This. Fucking. _Disrespect."_

And even Monday, sitting at the far end of the table, can't help but smile.

It goes unnoticed, though — Twelve clears his throat, and everyone knows what it means. With one last sneer at each other, the two withdraw their knifelike glares.

“Five and Six, huh…” Yestie frowns, deep in thought. “Dad’s letting go of his drug rings first. The little things. So he doesn’t want to cut too big a loss. Which leaves his shipments running, and the Hours in charge of _those_ are…”

Twelve says, “Ten. But she’s in Tartarus.”

“Then Two, Eight, and Nine,” says Nine. Almost imperceptibly, his jaw — what’s left of it — tightens.

Fort looks at him. “You mad at your replacement, old man?’”

“Like hell I am—”

Twelve silences them with a look.

“Thank you,” says Yestie. “So let’s streamline the plan, skim it to deal only with the remaining Hours — six of them?”

“Five,” says Monday. “One of them is the heir.”

Yesterday stays silent.

Finally, he asks, “Any new ideas?” and looks around the table, at each one in turn — nobody has a reply save for Fort’s _just fucking shank him good,_ the same thing he’d been saying all these months.

And Monday, well, he smiles. Just the tiniest bit.

“I’ll deal with him when the time comes,” Monday says.

At the same time Yestie says, “I’ll think of something.”

They look at each other.

Monday gestures. _Just go ahead._

Yestie takes a moment to collect himself.

“So five out of twelve. Those are good odds. But this window won’t last long. Once they scour the place and find out we’re not there… they’ll all come rushing back."

He breathes a long, deep breath.

“It’s now or never.” Yestie’s eyes are heavy, like cold steel. “This is our one and only shot.”

Silence descends on the room. It still feels so surreal.

“Well! Guess it’s fuck time,” Yesterday chirps brightly. Fort slams his own head against the table, Nine gives them both odd looks. “Twelve, Nine, updates?”

“Got rid of the signal interference at last,” says Nine, looking mildly pleased with himself.

Twelve nods. “I’ve looked at the Tartarus blueprints, got rid of most of the dead zones. As long as you stay above ground, we can guide you every step of the way.”

“Good. Fort, are things okay?”

"Fuck yes,” says Fort without looking up, “Got so much fucking ammo I don't even know what the fuck to do with it."

"Give it to whoever shows up," replies Nine. "There aren't many. But there will be some."

And then, all heads turn to the other end of the table..

"I dropped De Vis a text,” Monday says lightly, in a way that truly isn’t. “There’s no way he won’t know who I am, and what they’ll be getting involved in, not after Yestie sent Dawn to the precinct with all those pictures. They’ll bring everyone for sure, the blues, the medics, the FBI — It’s going to be a _fantastic_ party.”

He gazes down the table at every single person — at Nine, Twelve, Fortnight, and finally, at Yesterday.

"Everyone," says Monday. "Thank you."

Yestie doesn’t need to look around to know he’s speaking on behalf of all of them. Even as he visibly times his breaths in and out and clasps his trembling hands to keep them still, he answers his brother like the leader he is — always has been.

“No, thank you for letting us help.”

Yestie’s smiling. Like he's proud. Like he knows this is what they’ve been meant to do, all this time.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: torture, explicit descriptions of bodily harm, abuse

In all the while Monday's been gone, nothing's changed.

The house at the top of that winding hill, white like bone bleached by the sun, wreathed in too-tall trees and life that shouldn’t be here — it’s still exactly as he remembered.

Nothing really ever does seem to change, with Tartarus.

The sun's falling as Monday makes his way up the circling road. It's hot enough that there's not a stray sound beyond the scuff of his shoes on the tarmac, but he feels the phantom eyes weighing on him from all directions.

His father is waiting.

He's all dressed up for this. The same, creased clothes he left in, dirty face, strands escaping from his tied-back hair — like he'd been wandering for weeks instead of sitting pretty in a grassy suburb.

A formality, really. Decade knew better. It would be an insult to think otherwise.

Monday flinches as a faint _krttz_ thrums through his right molars and down his jawbone. An old trick from the Tartarus playbook — radio in the mouth when the ear can be seen. Much harder to find, and impossible if swallowed before a search.

 _"No welcoming party?"_ Nine's voice vibrates in his head like a yawn. _"The old man's really losing his touch."_

"He knows we're here, I'm sure," murmurs Monday.

 _"Tartarus is always watched."_ It's Twelve, sounding tinny. _"And if I know one thing about Decade: he adores his melodrama. Steel yourself. He’ll likely shock you on the porch.”_

Twelve pauses.

_"Well. Unless he sends Seven. In which case Decade definitely has flushed all his marbles down the potty and we’re free to go with Plan Let’s Turn It Up."_

Monday snorts quietly. "You never know. He might send a lovely butler."

 _"Ha. Hilarious,"_ scoffs Nine, as Twelve disconnects from the channel. _"Almost there, boy?"_

"Yes."

_"Alright. Go in there and keep your daddy busy. You need anything, you know the signal."_

"Got it."

 _"And don't be scared now."_ His voice softens. _"We'll be here."_

"Right. Just a few throat clears away."

_"Godspeed, Blue."_

Nine krttzes out.

Monday's already on the porch steps, mounting them two at a time. At the top, he reaches for the knocker and raps on the heavy door in his signature pattern, like there's more than death and danger on the other side, like everything at long last is coming to an end.

But when that door opens — oh, he couldn't clear his throat even if he wanted to.

For a start, the person at the door isn't Seven.

Despite the white dress shirt and black trousers, it’s not a butler either, not even a poorly initiated one.

It's the family pet. From the withdrawn posture and empty eyes down to the thick metal collar.

And even when his gaze meets Monday's, he does not make a single sound.

"Septie!" Monday exclaims. "What a surprise."

It's strained. Very strained. His eyes linger on everything that shouldn't be there — the bowed thinned-out frame, the bloodshot eyes, the _scarring,_ running along his limbs and forehead and the sides of his mouth like a slashed up smile.

_("Don't say anything. He's bugged. Don't. Say. Anything. Hang in there, boy, we're letting the rest know—")_

September Redmond, alive. Visibly _aching_ just to ask what the fuck Monday's doing back in this fucked up hellhole when even death's a better plight than—

But he just bows his head, not that he can move it far, drops his gaze and moves aside to let Monday in.

"Thank you," says Monday as he enters, in a way that really means _I'm sorry._

He doesn't wait for September. Somehow it seems more cruel to let him lead, which is surely what Decade sent him to do.

But he makes sure (though all he wants to do is run, turn back time, anything but accept this) to stop at the stairs' first landing, and turn around. To look September in the eye without hesitation, even when he can't bear the sight of his face. To let him know with every wordless fibre of his being that nothing has changed:

_I will get you out of here._

September hesitates. It occurs to Monday, with a sinking gut, that _escape_ or _rescue_ haven't been on September's mind for a long while now.

And finally the corners of his eyes crease, just a little, as though he knows better but he'll trust Monday the best he can. It’s only now that Monday truly realises how expressive his eyes are, even through the haze of pain.

How he is saying, _I'm so glad you're here._

One of the patrolling henchmen appear round the corner and the moment's broken. That little flicker of September disappears deep into its shell and there really is nothing else for Monday to do but ascend to the dining hall, head as high as it's always been.

 

 

"Welcome home, son. I knew it was a matter of time."

Only Decade's favorite child can recognise how the greeting's just the slightest bit frayed. How the room’s just the slightest bit off-kilter — sun leaking through the drapery, a rogue light bulb flickering in its sconce, the hallowed candlesticks and cutlery on the counters shifted out of place by millimetres.

How the man indicates the empty dining table with a too-wide arc. How widely he smiles. Monday isn’t sure he knows the man wearing his father’s clothes and face, not any more.

"My, you are _dishevelled,"_ Decade goes on, before Monday can reply. "Let's catch up over something simple, and you can clean up before dinner. Pick something to go with the earl grey. Cake? Shortbread?"

Monday reaches his seat and September moves to pull out his chair. _A lovely butler._

"Cake," replies Monday, "would be lovely."

He takes his seat — trying his best to ignore September, every glimpse is like a stab in his throat — and rests his elbows on the table, hands clasped.

It's not a posture he usually adopts at the table. Usually there's some flippancy to it, a healthy amount of _Fuck you.,_ but now his spine’s stacked upright, eyes clear like a summer day, lips curved upwards like he’s nothing but proud to be here — the heir than his father wished for and more.

And of course, Decade admires him like his masterpiece. They sit in silence, Tartarus’ Emperor and its new crown Prince.

It’s admiration, Monday realises, and just a sliver of distrust that really has no business being there.  

"My son,” Decade proclaims. “Back from the blue. A little less style than I’d expected, but it is what it is. To what do I owe this honor?”

"Mm, I don't know." Monday waits till September's out of view once more before smiling tenderly. "I guess I missed you."

Monday isn't expecting Decade to say nothing, but that's what he does.

In the lull, September’s laying out the last of the silverware. He's well practiced, each utensil lined perfectly parallel, not a fraction of an inch too far apart for the plates that follow.

It’s not until September sets the first slice of cake down before Decade offers a testing smile of his own. "Pray tell, what brought on this astounding change of heart?"

"I was alone. The people I worked with to leave… we didn't have the same goals after all. Once I learned what they wanted to do…"

The lavender cake _clinks_ down in front of him and he fluidly takes a bite.

"...I did away with them."

Decade does not eat his cake.

"I know you, Morrow. You're a planner like your old man. Planners don't make such elementary mistakes."

When September comes back, Decade grabs the end of his leash and pulls. Down. Fast. Hard. September stumbles forward, holding back a grimace, hellbent on righting the intricate porcelain teapot skidding around on his tray, on keeping the cups and saucers from falling into the food — "Or perhaps, you've returned for this sorry fool?"

He can hear the white noise thrumming up his jaw over the clink of that metal leash, snatches of Nine and Twelve talking to the others — he has no idea where they are and how long they're going to take —

"Would I? I left him behind."

“Yes,” says Decade, “I suppose you did.”

He gives the chain a sharp yank, September doesn’t even wince — and lets go so abruptly that when September straightens there’s a golden patch on his dress shirt with steam coming up off it.

September, oblivious, merely exhales — it's _relief_ — then sets about filling the cups.

"You chose well."

Monday's eyes quickly dart back to his father, and his idle fork back to his cake. "How so?"

“The same way I expect you to pick good children.” He casts an appreciative glance at September, who has mutely taken his place behind Decade and a little to the left, hands clasped behind his back like a good soldier. “He owns an admirable spirit, well surpassing many of the Hours. A shame it had to be stamped out."

"Why did you?" Any note of appal, despair, is carefully repressed.  “It's useful."

"Why did _you_ leave him behind?"

_A non-answer._

"He wasn't useful anymore." Monday grins a narrow, narrow grin. "And I know you like your pets."

Decade's smirk widens into a smile.

"A pet? For me? How sweet. After you finally crack past his stubborn, vulgar self, he really is quite a good present. I'd ask him to say thank you, but you must understand his silence was especially hard-won.”

Monday would spare Sept a glance — he's dying to — but Decade would know. He's always been sensitive to glances, subtle twists of the lips, wrong tones in the most careful words.

"I suppose we can resume the plans I’d made prior to your disappearance. But before that, and I know this is a little premature, take this as your first test." Monday knows these tests — one of them was the boulder that shattered the camel's spine, after all — "Bring Redmond to Three and fix his mouth. And then wash. I want both of you presentable for supper."

Monday hates that look in his father’s eyes.

He finishes his cake and wipes his mouth on his napkin, circling around to where September stands, stock-still, chain dangling from his bowed neck.

Monday tugs the chain — a gentle, merciful mirror of Decade — as he pulls himself in, drawing close.

The only thing he's really wanted to do all evening.

"Come on."

Monday knows his father’s fine with it. He enjoys these perverse displays of affection, as long as it's between things that belong to him.

He leads September out by the leash — September follows obediently, always two respectful steps behind — down the long dining room and to the door and finally past it.

And then Monday just can't help himself — he grasps September's collar, fingering the raw stripes on his neck, the linked rings that secure his leash. Wishing he could break them.

Resisting the few inches his hands could travel to reach the ridges framing September's lips.

 _"You out, boy?"_ Nine crackles behind his tongue. _"Do what he says. Get yourself away from Redmond, then report. Go."_

"Do you want me to do it?" Monday whispers instead, hoping to every heaven that Decade won't take offence, won't think he's thieving his pet, he's doing it _for_ Daddy, swear to god. "I clean my knives, promise."

September nods. Of course he would. Some of the tightness melts away from him and Monday realises, every visit to Three to be sliced open must've been a god damned struggle.

And September's folding hands around his wrists to guide his hands upwards. Presses his face into Monday's palm. Relearns his warmth and touch, as though starved.

Monday nods, blinking hard. His eyes are wet.

He takes September to his room without another word, not to him or Nine. There’s a topical numbing agent in his first aid kit, which he dabs at the edges of September's mouth before running a scalpel along each scar, just how Decade would like it — neat and tidy and just the right amount of crooked, like the flair of a signed name.

Monday knows it will still hurt a little, and he regrets it. He wills his fingers not to slip.

The first rivulet of blood flows down and September's knuckles go white around his knees, but still he stays exactly as he is. As he works, Monday carefully catches all the blood with a towel, each drop pooling dark on the blue fabric.

And when he’s done, he puts his thumb to September's poor, numb lips and wipes them clean. Not that it matters much. There’s so much red, everywhere.

September doesn’t look at him.

So he just touches September’s lips with his own — and September, imperceptibly, leans into it.

"Good boy," Monday says, for the benefit of their eavesdroppers. "Now run along back to daddy."

September hesitates. Perhaps not just because he wants to stay. Surely it must've been an order.

But he eventually he stands, takes the stained towel, packs the first aid kit away into its drawer, and leaves without a backwards glance. His footsteps fade down the corridor.

Monday closes the door behind him. And quietly crumples against it.

"Nine, please, we need to abort."

_"You're doing fine."_

"No. Surely this changes everything. Does Yestie know? You need to tell him."

_"Monday."_

"I need to get him out."

 _"We will if we can,"_ It's Twelve, sounding tired. _"But we must adhere to our plans. If it comes down to it the detective will simply have to be collateral."_

"He can't be here. He's… he's a liability. You all had a plan with him, right? You could go back to it—"

_"Said plan assumed he was still his own person, which he is no longer.”_

“No one in Tartarus is their own person. We all know that. _You_ should know that.”

 _“And_ you _should know that September's being alive does not jeopardize the current plan in any way."_

"He put a collar on him!" It's a fierce, terrified whisper. "You know what that means!"

 _"Yeah, the last cop got that too,"_ Nine's voice comes back just as harsh. _"Daddy loves his pets, remember?"_

"Please don't—"

_"Pull yourself together, boy. Heard you repaired your dad's toys sometimes. And don't tell me you didn't study that collar from every angle, just in case he ever got it on you."_

Monday grows silent.

_"Listen. I know the lock mechanism won’t be a problem for you. But I made those damn things for Decade. Getting them off takes time. If we have an opportunity, you can get him out. But you will not fuck up our months of planning because of some traumatised cop. Understand?"_

_"Nine."_

Soft aside murmurs that Monday can't make out.

Then, _"I know it's hard, Monday, but September isn't in immediate danger. Decade keeps his prisoners alive. If you get the chance, Nine and I can walk you through dismantling the collar.”_

And muffled, not meant for him to hear — _“Did you put a failsafe in?” “Oh yeah, think his crazy batshit daddy wants one?” —_

_“Monday, we'll do what we can. Until then, sit tight. And please, please keep to the plan. An opportunity like this will never come by again."_

"Okay."

Monday breathes.

"Okay."

He gets up. Dusts the carpet fluff from his clothes.

When he showers, he chooses the same outfit he came in — the one he wore to the shipment, for every shipment.

Black shirt with a wide collar and too-pressed pants. It feels like a uniform, always has.

But he knows how fast he can run in them.

He has to. The real game has only just begun.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Cannibalism, gore, violence

He should be running. From prior experience, when one of the Hours is talking personally with Decade and he's not pleased, Monday should be running. As fast and far away as he can.

But here he is, walking right into the fire. Six pairs of eyes in the dining hall meet Monday's — One, Three, Four, Ten, Eleven, and Seven's delighted, wild, gaze.

Decade and Six are talking, and Monday knows it's impolite to not maintain eye contact during conversation.

And September's gaze is averted, as he expected.

"... and miscommunication is not a valid excuse for letting your operation get blown.”

"Not my fucking fault the feds are all over Portsdown," Six hisses. "Think some fuckwad tipped the FBI off. My fucking runners‘re scrambling and mouthing off all sorts’a stories, you can’t expect me to search for fucking Judas on top of that! Shaking things up in Conrad’s gonna scare my informants shitless!”

Monday's carefully making his way to his usual seat, at Decade’s right hand — thoughtfully left empty for his arrival, one more black-uniformed figure amongst all the others —

“I can and I do expect you to find the traitors and bring them to me.” Decade’s eyes are sharp, vicious. “I will not tolerate another disappointment.”

Six just stares at him for a while, tongue rubbing at the chipped edge of her front tooth — surely biting back some callous reply — before marching herself out the room. She’s pissed at Monday, he knows.

Monday doesn’t turn to watch her go. And at the head of the table, Decade shakes his head slightly. "She really could've picked a better lie, seeing as her operation's one entire state away from Conrad." He all but flings his fork on the table, the movement belying his irritation. "As if the FBI's leads all come to a head the same time all this nonsense happens."

Monday waits. And it appears that pasty, washed out, broken Eleven's doing the same, ready to be asked for some inside information, some explanation — but all Decade does is to say, "You shouldn't have had to see that, but it is how it is, unfortunately."

"No worries, Daddy. Six was always the _worst."_

He takes his seat, all smiles, the prodigal son returned home at last.

 _"Perfect,"_ crackles Nine under Monday's tongue. _"One less bitch to worry about. Fort?"_

Fortnight's reply is jagged with static, no doubt from underground. _"Fucking patience, gramps, thought old people were all slow and shit."_

_"Fort."_

_"Pipes are empty. Just making sure the coast is clear."_

_"Alright, Monday, give us a headcount."_

And as September brings out the food one plate at a time, Monday grins at the table like old friends.

"What a party! Are we waiting for more guests?"

"Regrettably, they've been posted elsewhere," replies One, in his usual flat manner.

"Yeah, man," booms Four around a wad of old gum. "Lookin’ for you."

"Ah, pity. How about Annie and Enn? I miss them."

"Think they’ll be here soon. They returned a few hours ago. Feels odd having them around." Three looks up from inspecting glossy fuchsia nails. "Interestingly, Enn said the same thing about you."

"That could mean any damn thing." Ten says wryly. "Tomorrow and Enn? Players of words, both of em. Say they miss you one moment, and the next they'll use your honest mistake for the biggest getaway in history. If you weren't your father's son I'd have made you pay for the trouble I got into."

"Shame that he is, then," muses Decade.

"Damn straight." Ten knocks a fist against the table. "You're crazy, old man. The boy ain't even your own flesh or blood and you're upending your resources to kidnap him. We got runners for that."

"Similarly, I run my lieutenants any way I want, Braxten.”

"Just tellin' the truth, man. This place is falling apart."

Three sighs sonorously at her. "For pete’s sake, Braxten. I’ll spell it out for you, m’kay? Shut your damn mouth, it’s not your place.”

"Aight, cool, the boy's back 'n I'm wrong as hell.”

“Peoples get what’s comin’ to em,” Four says, and just chuckles — a low, hollow, rolling sound that Monday grew up hearing from the bowels of the basement every night.

And Monday doesn't need to see September to feel his shudder.

Eleven's looking at him. Ven, rather — the name Monday can't stop thinking of him as, back when he was just a police chief whose only crime was giving Monday's favourite cop a hard time. He looks betrayed now, _him,_ and it takes a while for Monday to understand why, before he remembers the baby girl back in Conrad.

Ven hasn't been home, that much is clear. It's like dust has settled on his shoulders, in the creases around his eyes.

"Been a while, officer," Monday ventures, soft under the surrounding banter. "How are things in the city?"

"I wouldn't know," replies Ven, spitting every word. "I arranged for someone to settle my affairs."

"I'm sure they'll manage," says Monday meaningfully, but Ven's gaze stays hard and Monday really, really can't blame him.

_"Enough chit-chat, boy. We can't hear the whole room, we need confirmation from you."_

Monday addresses the table at large. “So is it just the eight of us, or will I get to see everyone else?”

"Certainly, but in time," says One, staring at Monday with his extremely flat stare. "For now, by your father’s orders, we eat, drink, and be merry. It's a special dinner, after all."

"Wouldn't miss it for the fucking world," chortles Four.

"Special?" asks Monday. "What kind of special?"

"Oh come on. You know what kind of special it's gonna be. Dinner and a show." Seven snickers from across the table, then blurts out, “And _you're_ the show!"

As Monday’s eyes move inescapably to Decade, he clears his throat once — the signal for _yes._ The subsequent swallow is not part of the signal.

“Ha! He’s scared? Is Daddy’s faaaavorite son actually. Fucking. _Scared?”_

Any other reply is drowned out. Seven’s leaning back in his chair, head tilting, tilting.

Before he wrenches the tablecloth close, rattling the silverware and plates, toothy snarl warping on itself through Monday’s shivering wine glass. His soft leer perfectly audible in the deathly silence—

"I know you, punk. You're just tryna play dumb. You know daddy wants to see you prove yourself to him so stop asking these shitty questions and—"

“Seven.”

And at his father’s warning, the boy inhales sharply through his teeth, then rights his chair.  His vacant eyes stay affixed to Monday's, drinking in his every movement.

Decade studies his wine, so red in his pale hand. "Why don't you suggest something, Tomorrow? If it's any good, I'll allow it."

It takes everything for Monday to keep his cool, now it’s been two months since he knows what Seven could do, knows what lies behind those dark, doll-like eyes. Silently arranging the tablecloth back the way it should be.

Maybe he could exploit this. Rope Seven into an act, find some way to cripple him before the others arrive —

"He should kill the cop."

Monday’s spine turns to ice.

"They're beeeeeest friends.” Seven sounds breathless with anticipation. “He made the cop cocoa. Brought him to his room.”

After a brief contemplation, Decade clicks his tongue. "Don't be silly, Seven. I like my captives alive."

“Sweet sweetsweet sweet boy,” says Seven.

 _"Easy,_ Steven darling," Monday cuts in, futilely. "Easy. You heard our dad."

September’s alert now, arms tense and tight as he continues serving the wine. Scared.

_"Fort? Status."_

_"Going in, gramps. Blues on the surface, they're on their way."_

_"Give me an ETA."_

_"I dunno, man, they're not sending their fucking pings."_

_"Not how you use the word, champ."_

_“They’re not talking, a’ight, don’t expect me to fucking know why.”_

And Monday knows what he has to do.

"I'm sure you remember," he declares to the table, "what happened to the old Five? Sliced a bit of the pinky off. Renamed her Four for good measure."

The new Four chuckles again. Truly everything is funny to him.

All the while, Monday keeps his eyes on September. Willing him to read his gaze — _Wait. Bide your time._

"One finger." _I don't mean it._ "Sounds right."

September looks, reads Monday's gaze. But makes nothing of it. He's panicked, suddenly, in a way he's never been before. It's Tartarus' hold on him, Monday knows. That doesn't stop him from still hoping, somehow, that September knows it's a ruse, even as those dark-ringed eyes go wide with fear because violence at the table is exactly dinner and a show.

"Oh he’s gonna piss himself," Seven laughs, an ugly sound, and September jerks to terrified attention. "Shit. Take off his hand. Or an arm. Work your way up through the joints."

September merely stands there, dumbly holding that bottle of red, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched, looking everywhere but at Monday —

"You're a sicko, Seven," says Ten.

"Fuck you," says Seven. He sounds pleased. Then picks up his steak knife. "Look. It has _teeth._ You can saw through bone. Take an eyeball out. Bleed him from the socket."

“Right here?” Monday sighs disapprovingly. “And stain the carpet?”

“Carpet? Who needs carpet. Daddy can buy more carpet.”

“And he can also catch more cops. We don’t need to kill this specific one, do we?”

“It’s not ‘we’. _I_ want to.” Seven sticks his knife into his bread. “It’s just you who doesn’t want it.”

“Of course,” Monday says, surprised. “It’s more fun to watch him suffer, right? And here I thought I could share my things.”

Seven’s eyes dart to September, then back to Monday.

“No. You’re lying. You’re _protecting_ him,” he says, voice low. “You’re just pissed ‘cause it’s _your_ cop.”

“All I’m doing is trying not to damage _Daddy’s pet,_ Steven. Good pets are hard to come by.”

“Lying again. _Lying._ You know he’s not telling the truth he just wants to protect his cop he doesn’t want to kill him come _on,”_ Seven lurches in his seat towards his father, who only has eyes for Monday, "Make him take more!"

"Which finger." Decade says, and Seven swallows a growl.

September's eyes slide to the door. And Seven springs to his feet, black eyes lit, electrified, fingers digging like talons into the linen tablecloth, “Oh he’s a runner he’s a _fucking_ runner, give him to me I’ll slice his ligaments up good, he’s already got a collar let him _crawl_ like an actual dog—”

"Not across the table, Seven, how many times must I tell you." Decade's eyes are on September now, fixing him in place. "So, Tomorrow, which finger?"

"I like the pinky," says Monday. "Small. Delicate."

It's like his words aren't his own — not like they ever were in this place, as he wills his gaze not to waver in the face of his cop slowly, steadily losing all faith in him —

_"Fuck!"_

_"Fort."_

_"The blues, man, they're fucking—” static “— goddamn gunshots.”_

_"Fort, what's going on?"_

_"There’s a fucking sniper on them! —” static “—Shit, Monday, the twins were waiting for us! They’re outside, dammit, they're gonna fucking_ ruin _the blues!"_

"Perhaps you didn't know," Decade says, “the pinky is the hardest finger to lose. Its nerves are so entwined with its neighbour’s that even after it’s gone, the brain continues to feel a phantom copy of it moving for years. Personally I start with a different finger, it’s kinder that way.”

September’s breath stutters.

“You choose well,” Decade says again, to Monday. “Now prove your worth to me.”

Displeased, Seven half-rises from his seat. "Dad." _It's not enough._

"I'll let you play with whatever's left when Morrow’s through with him, Seven. Now be silent."

Decade beckons with two fingers.

"Redmond, come here."

Redmond does not.

More sternly this time, "Pet."

The pet only stands, chain dangling from his bowed neck, trembling so hard Monday can see it.

Evidently despite all his months here in Tartarus, there are still things left for him to fear.

"I can drag him over," murmurs Seven. "Ohhhh dad please. Pleasepleaseplease let me pull him here."

_"Whatever happens with the sniper best of fucking luck to them. Nothing you can do, boy, where are you?"_

_"In the fucking sewers, gramps, fuck, I don't know if we —” static “— take everyone down without the blues."_

_"Let's hope they can fight off two little girls. There’s no time. Keep moving."_

By now all eyes have settled on September.

His foot shifts, just a little.

_No._

Seven’s hands are around his leash in an instant, grinning wild and off-kilter — snickering as September jerks back in fright — and then he pulls without mercy.

 _Crash._ Plates and silverware clutter every which way, fragments going across the carpeted floor, the bottle splitting, dark red blossoming across the carpet— 

With one deft hand, Seven’s got one of September’s arms twisted behind his back, pinning his shoulders to the table without effort at all. His other arm’s extended, his rolled-up sleeve riding up to reveal that many more cuts and scars and bruises, Seven’s grip holding it firmly in place for Monday to claim his pound of flesh. And vainly, feebly, September struggles. But he can barely move — he’s lost too much weight, and Seven’s just that much stronger whenever he’s ready for some fun.

"Told you he was gonna fucking run. Look. _Look_ at him. This fucking _worm.”_

Seven doubles the weight on September's arm and September slumps further on the table, all his fight draining away like spilled wine.

"Scared, huh? Well _suck it down,_ I don’t let anyone run away from me. Ever. Nobody could. Nobody will. _Nobody._ Understand?”

Even with Seven's nails digging into his wrist, September's outstretched, scarred hand is clenched white.

"He's never lost anything other than blood before," muses Decade, having moved his wine out of the way of the struggle. "This is quite a defining moment."

His pale eyes settle on Monday. Monday keeps his gaze downcast, on September.

If dinner is a show, the table is a stage — now it seems the act is really beginning.

_“Fort, where are you?”_

_“We’re fucking going as fast as we —”_

The cop's clenched fist hurts him. That he won't trust him. Can't trust him, after everything he's done.

He runs his hand over September's ravaged skin. Decade always, always went for the hands. He knew how people treasured them.

He remembers how clean and strong September's used to be.

"What are you waiting for?" says Ven, cruelly.

"The right," says Monday, _"moment."_

Ven still doesn't understand. Neither does September, who only shrinks even more.

Seven has stilled. Something in Monday's words has cued his interest. He, Decade's semi-son, knows to quieten when the curtains rise.

"Thank you, Seven." Monday's perfectly calm. "Let go of him now, please."

Seven's gaze is so heavy. Slowly, stiffly, he unclamps his hands. Air still hissing sharp through his bared teeth. September stays slumped over on the table, eyes shut tight, head turned away from him.

Seven stares at Monday with those devouring eyes, and Monday can almost hear the cacophony in his mind — “Playtime. Mine. Mine. Finally. Play. My turn. Mine. _MINe. MINE—”_

He needs fo make his move before Seven acts on instinct. Monday reaches forward —

"You know," says Seven. Monday freezes. "You should make him scream. I heard it once. Just once. When it was my turn with him. He doesn’t scream very much at all, you know. Not like Mally, that last cop. But Red’s more fun. He’s stronger. Tougher. You can do so much more to him. You gotta really _really_ fuck him up before he’ll talk. Before he’ll be good. He just doesn’t like to make any sound, and."

Seven breathes, eyes alight.

“I,” Seven says, like it’s all just a game, “did it once. It took so many days. So many knives. So many hooks. So many pens. _So_ much water. But I heard it. It’s how you know he’s really in pain, you know. At his limits. And you can break him into a hundred, thousand, million tiny small little pieces any way you want. And he’ll _let you._ Because he just. Can’t. Fight. Any more.”

September’s body shivers once, weakly.

“Think you can do that to your faaaavorite cop?” asks Seven, head tilted.

Monday works back the growing knot in his throat.

"I'll try my best."

“Daddy never let me cut him up,” says Seven. “Not even a tiny bite.”

He sounds angry. Monday knows why. _I should be Daddy's favourite, not you. Daddy was keeping the first cut for you. That first cut? That first bite? That should be mine._

Monday gives him a reassuring smile. “I told you, I’ll share my toys. Remember? You can take the next _seven_ bites. Cross my heart.”

Seven stays silent, and Monday can only hope he's satisfied for now.

Slowly, gravely, Monday reaches out and cradles September’s wrist in his fingers.

Begins to unclench September’s fist — almost dismayed to find him giving with no resistance, each icy, shaking finger uncurling at Monday’s touch—

After all this time, he simply can’t refuse what Monday wants of him.

Monday feels everyone's eyes on him, the messy white noise in the back of his throat and snatches of Fortnight and his crew navigating the bowels of Tartarus — all drowned out by the pounding heartbeat in his ears, and September's _breathing,_ oh god, how hard and heaving and terrified it is.

What he wouldn't give to take him away from here, from everything.

"Scream for me, love," he says instead, and he slips September's pinky into his mouth.

September doesn't scream.

At least, not for a heartbeat.

Then it rips from him. Cracked. Split. So guttural, and so _strained._

Broken.

The table is overjoyed. Not that Monday can see it, but quite honestly, they'd _better_ be. Against September's wretched yell, Monday shuts his eyes and keeps going —

"Aww _hell_ yes," rumbles Four, barely audible over the sound of September. "Nice and slow."

Monday can’t see Decade watching him but he doesn’t need to, never has.  What would his face reveal this time — satisfaction? Pride? Or is he just a master watching his dogs at play?

He hears Ten, through a wince — “Fuck.”

And Seven, “Ah, he’s fucking screaming,” hissing sharp and carnal through a snarl-grin, sounding like he loves it and hates it at the same time —

Beyond that Monday can only hear the echo of that _scream_ thrown back at him, surely echoing through the whole of Tartarus, even to those rushing through the belly of the stronghold,

— blood splatters on the table. But it’s not the cop’s. Monday clenches his jaws tighter, tighter, tighter around his inner cheek, iron washing over his tongue,

and his teeth don’t claim a single gob of his cop’s flesh, as his nails claw into a deep bruise at September’s wrist, against the tendons and the veins and the nerves so he doesn’t have to pretend how much it hurts —

("Get it over with, _please,"_ says Ven faintly. "The noise is _unbearable.")_

("Careful now," replies One. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you've gone soft —")

And somehow, above the noise, the door clicks open loud and clear.

The room turns to look at the nameless lackey who's arrived, body braced against the doorframe, eyes filled with fear and a certain kind of wonder.

"Boss!" he cries. "There's —"

And chokes. Keels over.

An oversized throwing knife embedded neatly in the back of his skull.

From down the corridor, a familiar voice — _"Fuck_ yeah!"

And so the second act begins. Reinforcements, dressed dark and armed to the teeth, pouring in through the kitchen entrance, with Fortnight and Yesterday bursting through the main doors, one twirling a glinting knife and the other clutching a revolver like a lifeline. "Hands up," yells Yesterday. "You're surrounded —"

But they're going up against the deadliest people in Tartarus, and not one of them’s gonna listen to a goddamn pansy _hands up._ The Hours draw their weapons, and rise to meet the new arrivals.

It’s almost pitiful, seeing Yesterday’s men fall —

Monday and September spring apart, so much red staining their hands and their shirts from Redmond’s split lips and Monday’s nicked cheeks. They lock eyes, too much dying to be said in too little time, _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, for breaking your trust, for everything,_  and it’s taking all Monday has not to grab September and just _get him out_ —

because Decade is rising to his feet, eyes like death and his favorite killing knife under his fingers, and Monday knows he can't.

He is still, after _everything,_  Decade's son.

 

The room stills a little when Decade moves. A second passes in a blink of an eye — after all, in ten years — each moment melts into the next like flowing water.

 

Two steps, feint and disarm, it only takes a single brush of Decade’s fingers over an agent’s tactical vest before he’s sent to the ground like some abandoned marionette.

And then his friend, and the buddy spotting them, and the one laying covering fire from five paces away.

Decade’s glove drips red when he tugs it aside,

and turns to his next target.

"Yestie!" Fort bellows from across the room, arms and knives locked with One's, "Fucking move! Pull the trigger!"

Yestie can't, caught like a rat in a trap under his father's gaze.

“Fucking _shoot him!”_

Yestie doesn’t.

Decade walks to him, looking into his son’s wide, trembling eyes with nothing but disappointment and impatience. Ready to teach him about what happens to little boys who defy their fathers.

(And still Yestie doesn’t shoot. Yestie _can’t.)_

Before he’s forced back by a smear of faded pink, the swing of a poisoned blade. One's body is twitching on the floor, so many handles protruding ugly from between his ribcage and jugular,

And it’s Fort before him, snarling,"Pick on someone your own fucking size, old man.”

It's like he’s watching a little puppy bark, the way Decade's lips are curled. And he readies his knife, plunging down —

Instead of stormcloud grey, Decade's gaze meets flashing blue.

Monday has one hand on Fort's weapon, and the other hand braces against Decade's knife with a knife of its own. The blades, perfect swoops with an ugly crook at the end, are one and the same.

Yesterday knows that knife. It's not Monday's.

"I've been saving this," says Monday, "For a long time."

There's something harsh and bitter in his voice, in the way he can't smile.

"I think she'd like this."

_(And Nine, unheeded — "Kid, if you wanna free your cop, now's the time —")_

"She would."

They step back. Decade's gaze is unreadable to all but his sons — that unmistakable anger from having his plans upended _again,_ plans birthed from when he saw his wife die, when he for the first time learnt how cold and oblivious death could be and felt afraid, when he decided that he wanted to live on in his children.

"I should have known, Monday. Shame on me."

What a blood curdling smirk.

"Good then, that I have one more child."

And Seven’s here, grabbing with claw-like fingers. Black glossy nails drawing blood over the tendons of Monday’s wrists. Grinning, all the while, as he forces Monday’s blade backwards with nothing but a steak knife snatched off the table —

Off to the side Monday makes out Decade readying his own knife, his pale serpent-like gaze settling on Monday’s unprotected neck —

A gunshot.

Decade doesn’t strike and Monday wrenches his head back to look — it’s September. Hand clutching at his shoulder from the recoil, one of Decade’s henchmen unconscious by his feet, holster empty. And all that _fire_ in those crimson eyes like a sip of water after the desert sun, Monday never knew how much he needed it until he sees his boy aim unsteadily down his weapon once again. As determined as when he was nothing more than a detective ready to arrest a thief in front of a shopping mall window —

Decade's knife has disappeared.

With his eyes still on Monday, he says to his last remaining child,

"Kill him.”

before he is gone.

Seven's upon him.

Seven, eager, impatient, _dying_ for his turn in the spotlight.

Seven, his jabbing knife sluiced with chandelier light, a dizzying whirl of glowing spots and ink-dark bloodlust and that bottomless, bottomless hunger.

“Seven—”

Seven, driving Monday back past the fallen Hours and back and back and out of the dining hall, into Tartarus’ echoing corridors, through the maw of the beast and down its pulsing throat.

“Seven, _please—”_

Seven, having the most fun he’s had in a long, long time.

Monday can't attack, can't breathe, can't find a single opening — it dimly occurs to him that their last meeting was literally child's play on Seven's part, that he only survived because he was allowed to. No child of Decade's had truly been trained to fight, not like this.

 _I’ll deal with him when the time comes,_ he’d told Yestie, like talking a fucking dragon to death is really the best he can do —

“Hey — Come on now! Sev — Steven! _Steven!”_

— and the dragon of Tartarus gives nothing in reply except fire and brimstone, blazing through the gaps between his predator teeth, and the once-heir of Tartarus simply can’t afford to think anything anymore.


	36. Chapter 36

In a strange way, Monday never thought he’d need to fight for his life. At least, not here. Inside this great desert castle he always believed no harm would come to him — no _real_ harm — not when his father protected him, treasured him, spoiled him so, all the years of his life.

So now, here, forcing his little blade against Seven’s steak knife as it stabs down and down, like a fang, like a guillotine, it feels all but a dream.

All a dream, slammed against wall after wall after peeling wall, choking on the must in the air and the bile in his gullet, this must be the servant corridors, which he’s never seen but his brother must know like a second home — all a dream, like nothing’s real, like everything’s in his mind—

“Where are you going, golden boy? Are you _actually afraid,_ golden boy?”

— like he’ll wake up and the monster will crumble to sandman dust, this blood-soaked beast with gnashing teeth and eyes that burn like they’ll never go out,

“You coward. coward coward coward. You called me a coward. _Me._ A _coward?”_

Monday realises those words were _his,_ he doesn’t even remember—

“Hit me where it hurts, why don’t you, golden boy? Huh? _Huh?_ Why won’t you _fucking try?”_

Monday’s back hits something — a door —  and his elbows strain against those veiny spindle arms, his quivering eyes meet Seven’s split-lipped grin and he’d be damned if he wasn’t trying, it’s just that _nothing lands_ —

He throws himself aside just in time to miss Seven’s knee, which rams against the old door and it splinters like so much bone — as Seven winds himself back for another blow, Monday hurls himself against the broken latch and crashes the door open, stumbling into the central kitchen, making immediately for cover behind the nearest deep freezer.

The air is soaked in the scents of Tartarus’ favorite food —

In the darkness Seven laughs, once.

Monday realises how hard he’s breathing, breaths clawing at the back of his throat. And goes perfectly still.

His pursuer ambles further in. A shard of light darts along the back wall, glancing off his carelessly swinging knife.

“Daddy loves you most, you know. He always loved you most.”

Seven’s voice echoes like it’s coming from everywhere. Now Monday moves, keeping his head below the countertops, praying, praying that Seven won’t hear him —

“Everything he did was because of you. He gave you anything you wanted. He gave you _everything._ His favorite favorite son. His preccciiiiious child. You know,” Seven says, lightly, “he told me you were _the perfect heir.”_

Monday’s blood runs cold.

“Once. Only once. But I never forgot. Oh no, how could I ever fucking forget. That daddy was so in love with his precious, precious child even when he ran away from home.”

He’s reached the end of the aisle. Feeling his way around the counter, Monday chances the briefest look. The door’s still open, pallid fluorescent light thrown across the floor and the chrome appliances shining in the dark. If he’s quiet he can round past the fridges and dishwashers, lock Seven in, and make a run for it...

He’s not sure if there’s another way. But it’s all he’s got.

“Daddy always talked like you were gonna _change the world._ He believed you were gonna be good for him. And he trusted you.”

Seven’s voice comes always from behind him, good, he’s none the wiser, not yet —

“But you knew that, right? You always knew. You knew and you used it to get everything you want. You call him _daddyyyy_ like you love him. With that cute voice of yours. But only because you know daddy loves it. Because you’re using him. You’ve _always_ been using him.”

Monday rounds the last corner. There’s the door, just a short dash away from —

A shadow.

He yanks his head back in and presses flat against the warm metal of a meat chiller, heart beating hard in this throat.

Unable to shake the image of Seven, framed in the doorway baring his crooked crooked grin, hair and eyes pitch black against the lifeless light,

staring straight at him.

“I know you,” Seven goes on. “You’re a dirty, naughty, disgusting liar. All you say are lies. And Daddy believes you, I know he does, he lets you get your way. But I know you. I know you more.”

Is there another door? There has to be. Always too many doors in this hell of a house but he can’t remember, he hasn’t been in this part of the house in years and definitely not in _here,_ he was never allowed to see the food as it was killed —

“All your pretty words and happy smiles? They’re all lies. You’ll never be happy. Because you have nothing else other than lies. You’ll keep using them. Keep using everyone, like you’ve used everyone you’ve met.”

Something shifts just past his eye and it’s Seven — no, just a warped reflection, rippling across the choppers and knives hung above the sink.

Still grinning a chopped-up grin.

“You used daddy. You used your sister, you let her fight while you hid safely away. And you used your brother when daddy got angry, used your brother as a shield so he got punished and you could stay daddy’s favorite. And then, your sweet bestfriendcop. Used and thrown away like a broken toy.”

Monday’s eyes dart everywhere, anywhere, and finally, there. Another door.

“Oh, yessss, I know you, I’ve spent _all_ my _fucking life_ listening to the nice things people say about you, listening to what daddy says, listening…”

Monday hurries, as best as he can—

“I hear you breathing, brother,” Seven says breathily. His voice high, childlike, like he’s reciting a nursery rhyme — “Poor thing. Pitiful thing. You’re _so scared._ Why are you scared, golden boy? Daddy loves you. He’ll never let you get hurt.”

A pause.

Monday stops moving. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face. Where is—

Behind him.

“Too bad _daddy’s_ not here now!”

With a snarl Seven stabs his knife down, catching Monday’s trouser leg as he hurls himself forward, and then again and again, as Seven rushes for him over and over, closer, _closer,_ so consumed by bloodlust and the thrill of the hunt—

His voice grating and harsh in Monday’s ear, “How’s it feel, brother? To be thrown away? Poor thing —”

Monday rolls to his feet and _runs,_ there’s nothing else he can do—

“Why don’t you scream for him, golden boy?

Seven’s laughing at his heels, just one misstep away—

“Why don’t you cry for help!”

Monday’s eyes race across the countertops—

“Call for _daddy_ and see if he fucking saves you now!”

He hears as much as feels Seven’s breath against his skin.

And then there’s a shriek of pain, the metallic _clang_ of the kettle hitting the floor, and Monday can’t help stealing just the briefest look — steam’s rising off Seven’s shirt and arms from where he’d flung the kettle at him, the boy clawing at his body like he’s scraping off flies —

Monday won’t let himself look for long. He plunges through the door at last, turns down the first corner, the second, the fifth door and the staircase beyond that, praying his fucked-up route will slip through Seven’s fucked-up mind like a sieve. In a few moments, everything around him has changed again — everything is moldy and still and silent and dim.

The groan of a metal bolt cuts through the heavy, heavy quiet and he realises Seven’s followed him here without a problem.

As to where _here_ is, in these dark corridors and musty air, he has no idea. He needs to get out, fast —

Light.

Shining bright and teeth-like white on solid, featureless concrete walls. Not even a stain on them, only faint indentations to show they were once constructed by human fingers. There’s a real chance this place has never seen the sun. Everything is heavy like rigour mortis, a draught’s gnawing at his ankles, there’s only time to wonder, briefly, what made such cold air —

And immediately he knows. He’s in the anterooms.

 _Anterooms._ They called it that, up there, when Decade wasn’t listening. Anteroom meant _waiting room_ — in normal-world dictionaries, that is, and the Victorian novels he devoured as a child. But over the years out in the desert the word twisted on itself like an ingrown toenail until it became a place where you waited, and waited, and waited to leave, and never did.

Little doors dot the walls — doors upon doors upon doors of waiting, lined up forwards and backwards all the way to the light switch that Seven has surely just flipped.

“Let’s stop talking about daddy for now, shall we?” Monday smiles at nothing, his lone knife so tightly clenched that it hurts.

Maybe if he can keep Seven occupied, he’ll eventually find a way out. It’s not much but it’s his only choice.

“Yeah? And talk about what?” Seven’s voice bounce so oddly down these corridors. “You tryna make friends with me so I’ll let you off easy? Is that it?”

“Of course not—"

“Good, ‘cause I’ve waited all my life to kill you. All my _fucking_ life.”

And god, Seven’s in _front,_ not behind, around the corner there’s a glimpse of Seven just — _standing_ there. Head tilted, smile as sharp as the knife dangling from his fingers. With just a smear of black under those vacant eyes, arm and neck reddened from the touch of hot water, and that awful smile —

Seven, waiting for him. _Toying_ with him.

Monday’s retraced his steps in no time.

“So, what kind of super-smart super-real lies do you think I will believe, precious brother? Do you still have more?”

“Probably not. You got me,” says Monday airily, like his heart isn’t going a mile a minute. “Tell you what, why don’t we talk about you?”

“Nobody asks about me unless they want something from me. You’re still using people, golden boy, you think you can use me.” And in an awful facsimile of Decade’s accent, _“Has your father taught you nothing??”_

The laugh that follows comes from somewhere else. Monday veers away from it, eyes darting over his shoulder with every step.

“Steven dear, you’re dreadfully mistaken! If I’m doomed to die by having my lungs slashed open by an expert slasher, I’d like to know more about him.”

“Ha, cute. You think I’ll kill you quickly.”

Another laugh, louder. Closer.

“But fine. Since you’re the first one to ever ask, fine. It feels nice, being asked about. So yeah, sure, let’s talk about me.”

A dark shadow appears at the end of the corridor. He has to go another way.

“Wait. I have a better idea. Why don’t I tell you a story, brother? You like storytime, don’t you?”

It seemed Decade’s children all so loved their storytime.

“Once upon a time… there was a little boy. And he got born in nowhereland, a place that the boy doesn’t remember. One morning, the boy woke up in a box. A big black box that was cold and full of other crying children, just like him.”

Seven’s smiling, wide, toothy. It leaks from his voice. _Where_ is the exit, Monday couldn’t possibly have wandered that far off but everything just looks the same —

“The little boy was put into a small, dirty house called Syracuse, and he stayed there a long time. It was stuffy and crowded and he was always hungry. It was the worst time of his life. But one day a man came, and said to him, ‘My, what big eyes you have! What soft hair you have! What big teeth you have! All the better to be my golden boy, my dear,’ and he took that boy and gave him clothes and food and.”

Monday pauses. He’s seen this set of fingerprints before, this particular shoe print before.

A circle? Does this place truly only have one way in and out?

“It didn’t matter that the boy came from a box. It didn’t matter that the boy came from nowhereland. The man called Decade took the boy from the mouldy rat-filled house and brought him to a big, big castle called Tartarus.”

No, thank the gods, there’s still one more corridor he hasn’t tried.

“Decade told the boy if he became the strongest, fastest, deadliest boy anyone had ever saw, he’d get all the toys he wanted, all the food, all the candy, anything. _Everything_ he wanted.”

And there, an open door.

“He gave the boy a room, and he gave that boy a name.”

But it isn’t until Monday slips through and behind the door that he realises it’s not an exit at all. The room is cramped, four-walled, harshly lit with no switch. And strewn all over are torn-up toys stitched back together, weapons both rusted and not, and those walls — crayon drawings and indecipherable shapes, a madman’s musing.

“The time after Today, and before Tomorrow. The fastest time of the day.”

A cot in the corner, thin ratty sheets. A dresser piled high with makeup, _PRETTY BOY_ scrawled in unsteady letters on the mirror with dark red lipstick —

“The _darkest_ time of the day.”

And Seven’s jagged whisper, he realises, is _right on the other side of this door —_

“Midnight.”

Monday grabs the door handle and flings it out — a snarl and stumbling footsteps and Monday’s soaring down that corridor, he’s never run so fast. And oh, god, finally.

Stairs. He swings himself up and up _(how fucking high does this go)_ and, finally sees another metal door. This _has_ to be the way out.

He bursts out into golden light, heaving warm air that smells of floral soap and old books. A wooden door, and another, and then dark shelves in crowded rows that open up little by little until _finally,_ it’s somewhere he knows.

His mother used to read to them in this library, nestled in plush cushions and thick carpet in front of a gently glowing hearth. He and his siblings were free to climb the wooden ladders and retrieve any of the million ornately-bound fables they so chose, so long as they read under the porcelain lamps and never, _never,_ went beyond the third shelves.

No way could he have known about this door to the anterooms, stashed away in Decade’s private collection, where children had no business.

But that was then. Now he needed to _get out._ He threads past the shelves, resisting the sneeze that comes when his footsteps drive up dust from the never-touched floor.

“And all that time,” says Seven, “Midnight was trying _so_ hard, being so fast and strong on his missions, trying his best, and all he wanted was to belong, and… that man Decade was giving all his love to three children. Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. He gave them everything, _everything_ they ever dreamed of, and Midnight was just alone, so alone…”

Monday nearly misses him.

That black haired black eyed black clad boy, propped carelessly against the empty fireplace. Like it’s any normal day and he’s on naught but a casual stroll.

(And meanwhile Monday has never felt more like a stranger in his own home.)

“When Decade’s children all betrayed him,” said the boy, “he gave Midnight another name. A _special_ name. And unlike his favorite son, who’d _always_ had a special name…”

The boy once called Midnight smiles.

“I,“ says the boy, “had to earn it.”

The smile disappears.

“So I will earn it again.”

And he lunges.

He’s _so fast._ Monday has barely any time to breathe, it’s all he can do to stop Seven’s blade cutting him open, falling back through the main library doors out of the swing, he can’t even chance the slightest look over his shoulder. Just endless corridors he can’t afford to recognise, not when he’s beaten backwards through the heart of Tartarus with the castle dragon bearing down upon him.

They slam through another door, the walls open up — _windows —_ moonlight streaming across a vaulted chamber, a grand piano at centre stage.

A moment off-balance and Monday's on the floor, worming out of Seven's sweaty grip, taking a glancing blow from Seven’s elbow. He’s on his feet instantly but not fast enough, Seven’s knife’s splitting open yet another deep gash across his arm, his back. His thigh. Nails, scouring like claws down the nape of his neck only to seize the collar of his shirt, he only barely twists free. His next stride tripped up by Seven’s foot, the world tipping dangerously as his ankle gives, and by some sheer stroke of luck he doesn’t ruin his other one in the hurried stumble away.

_It suddenly becomes clear._

_Seven was playing with his food._

_But now, it’s time for dinner._

"Seven — Seven, _please."_

Recognises that moving strip of reflected light just in time to bring his blade up and meet Seven’s. And even then it’s the same old, he’s pushed back, and back, toward the silent piano in the middle of the hall.

"You're _weak,_ chosen one." Seven’s eyes are so, so black like this. “You’ll never be chosen if you came out of the sea like me.”

A feint and twist and Seven’s blade flies from his grasp. But Monday dives under the piano because this is Seven, the dragon, the _demon,_ snatching his knife out of the air with ease and slicing so close Monday hears the sound of it splitting the air behind him.

“You’re worth _nothing,_ chosen one. You only had _luck._ You’re only pretty, and cute, and when things start to go wrong you can do _jack shit…”_

And silence, suddenly.

It’s a chance to breathe. Jumping to his feet behind the lifted cover of the grand piano, so focused for the slightest movement from beneath for when Seven to follows suit.

But nothing.

A heartbeat, and another. And another. Monday waits. Just the slightest shift and he’ll stab, he will, he’s ready this time, he’ll catch that mad boy in the back of the neck if he’s forced to, he really will.

Beyond the pounding of his heart and his ragged breaths,

all is perfectly silent.

Compared to Seven’s untidy stream of consciousness, this cold silence is far worse.

Monday doesn’t relax his grip on the knife. He’s aware, presently, of the shirt sticking wetly to his back, the sting from sweat touching his open wounds, the way adrenaline’s making the room shimmer like a desert mirage.

A black shape streaks down the piano cover. _The banister._

And Monday’s underneath the piano once more as Seven drops down beside him and _slashes —_

hands grab him by one foot and down he goes, twisting as he's dragged across the marble floor. He snares his arm on the pedals and kicks, blindly, until he catches something hard and Seven snarls and he wrenches his leg free.

And still he's not fast enough to catch or dodge the piano bench crashing against the back of his knees, and the floor —

The world goes white. Everything’s swirling. He can’t breathe, can’t gasp, can’t beg, and it all comes back in a rush.

Seven's lifting him up by the neck. Tongue already brushing past those chapped, gnawed lips. Bright eyed like he doesn’t even feel Monday digging his nails into his wrists.

But Monday's bleary gaze is drawn past his shoulder and to the shadow in the viewing gallery —

Their father, as though watching his sons in a deathmatch is the most normal thing in the world.

He used to _enjoy_ that undivided attention, once upon a time. When he was leaning against the piano with a gently singing guitar in hand, with his sister's fingers floating across the ivory keys and his brother drawing elegant patterns in the moonlight with his body, back when they were just a _family_ and everything still made sense.

He knows that Daddy, as much as Seven likes to think, isn’t here to help.

"Hey Monnie, remember you said I never had friends? Remember that? No? Well I remember. It’s still here, like a _rock_ in my favorite shoe."

The fingers tighten around his neck, it'll bruise, dark spots bloom in Monday’s vision and his father does nothing.

"You’re wrong. ‘Cause I don't need anyone. I’ve never needed anyone. Never asked a single Hour or second or _goddamn minute_ for help. Never been _acknowledged_ that I’m the best child in Tartarus, but now everyone will finally _know the truth."_

Seven drives him against the piano keys and he's thankful that the smear of dissonant notes hides his stray gasp. Everywhere he touches, his fingertips come off caked with dust.

"You're _pathetic,_ Monday Blue. You've never tasted hardship in your life. Never known how it's like to be hungry—" _crash_ "—or the fear you'll never be good enough—" _crash crash_ "—you always had someone helping you. Papa, your bro, your sis, that _fucking_ cop, you’ve always _had it all—”_

He flings Monday to the ground, into the the circle of moonlight coming in from the window.

“Now nobody’s here. And you have nothing. You and I? We’re finally the same.”

His shadow falls across Monday where he lies coughing, sweat and tears and saliva pooling on the floor beneath him as he struggles to regain his breath.

“I will finally, finally be daddy’s perfect, perfect golden boy.”

Monday tries to get up, but his body can’t move quite right.

God, he can't _fucking_ breathe.

"Nobody's— here?" Monday grits out, like he’s not tasting blood at the back of his throat, "Then you're not showing— anyone— are you?"

Seven’s gaze hardens.

“Nobody’s watching.”

Monday pushes himself up on bruised elbows. Seven’s silhouette, against the pale moonlight, slides in and out of focus. “That part of you so _desperate_ — to prove yourself. Why would— you do that, if nobody’s—”

 _“Nobody’s here.”_ Seven strides over, knife bouncing in his palm, gaze dark as sin. His voice is gravelly when he says, “I don’t need to prove myself to anyone.”

Monday grins. "And how do you think… Daddy will feel when I die?”

In those black eyes, Monday sees just the barest sliver of doubt.

“Happy? Proud? Relieved? … How will he feel when he sees you kill me?"

Seven slows, because oh, he knows.

"You fucking _worm._ All you know is talk, talk, _all this fucking talk,_ you’re trying to trick me into letting you go, nobody gets away from me, not now not ever—”

“Do you really think that after I’m dead,” Monday goes on, irrepressibly, “Daddy will finally be proud of you?”

“He asked me to kill you—”

“—He _raised_ you to kill me!—”

"—So what if he did, what if he _fucking did,_ that’s what daddy wants and I'll make daddy proud!”

Seven strikes. Monday can hear how hard the boy’s breaths are coming, like he’s on the verge of tears, so very unstable — that toothed knife scraping shrilly against marble as Monday rolls to his feet, laughing all the while.

Something’s clicked for him. Even as he watches Seven pause where he’s crouched over on the ground, vacant eyes affixed to his reflection in the marble, he’s not afraid anymore.

The moment Decade appeared in the viewing gallery, Monday knew how to beat him.

"He raised you! For how long exactly? How long did you linger in your dark, rat-infested hole before he dug you out?”

"How does that matter—”

“All that effort,” says Monday, cruelly, “all that attention, all that _kindness_ spent on you. And you think he’ll be happy when all he gets in return is the death of his _favorite_ son?”

Seven pulls himself unsteadily onto his feet. His knife hand is shaking.

“How the _fuck_ does that matter!”

That pitch black gaze sharpens.

_It’s coming._

“I’ll _fucking show you_ what Daddy raised me for!”

He’s before Monday in a blink. Monday dodges the knife but not the nails, raking angry lines down his hand, catching the button of his wrist cuff.

_Move._

Seven’s eyes are lit from the inside in a way Monday’s never seen on another human being.

The piano bench comes hurtling towards him and Monday leaps out of the way — Like this he’s in the middle of the room, moonlight touching his skin like ice, red beading lines ripped through his shirt and criss-crossing his arms and heaving shoulders.

The boy doesn’t follow. He’s gazing at nothing. Not moving an inch.

And like a puppet, he whips his head and arm around  —

_Move._

_Move!_

— Monday forces himself to meet this unhinged beast. Ducking when Seven swipes for him. Snagging Seven’s pant leg. Pulling, for all he’s worth. Catching Seven by surprise, sending his lightweight frame toppling backwards, and Monday pulls harder so the back of the boy’s head _slams_ into the floor.

Monday’s crouched over his shaking body, pinning down his bony arms down.

Gazing keenly into those black, black eyes — like his gut isn’t coiling itself into knots, like he’s not ripping apart at the seams with terror — like he is, as he’s always been, Daddy’s perfect golden boy.

"Think about it, brother," he says softly, just beside his ear so Decade doesn’t catch it. Something in his voice makes Seven fall still. “Dad’s been _different_ lately, no?”

The madman behind those dark eyes quiets, just a little. _Listening._

“So many meat dinners. Sending _everyone_ out of Tartarus without warning. Capturing a cop and not eating a single bit of him. And you think he’ll keep his promise to make you the heir? Who’s to say he won’t change his tune again.”

Seven’s throat bobs.

“He raised you to kill me? And yet for months you couldn't hurt an _eyelash_ on me. Every time you tried to do what you were made to he always said _No, Seven, not now, Seven, behave yourself, Seven—”_

"I'm better than you," Seven grits out. "He needs me."

"Does he?" Monday pretends he can’t stifle a laugh. "Does he really? Let's say you kill me. You do what he raised you to do. You really think he'll _need_ you any longer?”

His eyes, damp as they are, sparkle like onyx in the moonlight.

And Monday goes on, like those words aren’t an echo of the thoughts that scared him too, late at night, when he lay in bed unable to sleep — "You? The child he can't take out of the house, who needs eyeliner to be pretty enough for him?"

Seven roars. Wrenching Monday close, arching to drive the blade into Monday’s neck —

The boy’s unsteady in his fevered haste, and Monday has been waiting.

A quick twist and he’s got a hand and a knee digging into Seven’s back, driving him into the floor with everything he has. And oh god please, please let it be enough—

"He doesn't love you," hisses Monday.

He sees as much as feels the staggered, choking breath Seven sucks down.

"He didn't even pick you off the street, one of his lackeys did.”

“No.” It comes out a hoarse whisper. “No, h-he said—”

“Who put you in that box, Seven? Do you think Decade did? Don’t lie to yourself, Seven, if it wasn’t him then it was just another one of his runners. He probably doesn’t even remember who turned you over to him.”

“I,” Seven’s voice is watery, suddenly, “am his son. I _am.”_

“And why would he remember you, over all the rest? You’re not all that pretty. You talk like a child. You’re simple-minded. Naive. And all you know is how to follow his orders like some dog. All you are is a _tool_ to him.”

Seven slams his fist against the floor. “You’re lying. Lying—”

“Midnight, huh? The fastest, best time? And the first chance Daddy got, he took it away from you and gave you someone else’s hand-me-down name? Hmm, _Seven?_ He always saw you as part of a headcount, nothing more.”

“You’re lying lying _lying lying—”_

Monday leans in, closer,

“You'll never be his son."

Seven slumps to the ground with a sob — a sooty splatter appears on the white marble floor.

"You're lying. You’re — _stop talking!_ Just shut up! _Shut up!”_

“My father,” Monday says gently, “will never love you.”

Seven's shivering beneath him, now. Shaking with rage.

So many more of blackened tears appearing beneath him.

“S… Stop.”

Monday does.

“J-Just… just _stop.”_

A sob twists his words.

Looking at the knuckles so painfully white around one of the many utensils from Decade’s kitchen drawers —

“Please just… I…”

Monday watches Seven tremble and shake. Watches Seven _breathe,_ watches yet another black drop slip from the corner of his eye.

Knows that this, and only this, was the only way to bring him down.

“I’m sorry,” says Monday. “But as much as it hurts, you finally know the truth.”

And with his gaze flicking subtly upwards, “He’s stopped you every time before. But Daddy isn't stopping _me_ now, is he?"

Seven gives no reply, except for a low breath of air forced through clenched teeth.

And he sees Seven's eyes travel slowly, jerkily up the stairs, to the second floor viewing gallery.

To Decade.

The man melts into the shadows.

All is still. Seven can do nothing but continue staring.

_Daddy?_

The boy’s breath hitches just once in the quiet.

And his voice is so painfully childlike when he says, "He was… lying to me?”

Seven looks confused. Betrayed. And kind of lost.

“I… I was n-never gonna be his golden boy, he… he just wanted me…”

Steven’s throat bobs, testing the weights of these new words, these foreign words, so new that he sounds afraid to even say it.

“… to… to be… obedient.”

But it comes out of him so easily, like he’s always known, all this time.

“He lied to me he never wanted me to… he used me.”

"That's right,” says Decade’s golden, blue-eyed boy.

Head craned towards the stairs, Seven is so very still. And his pale neck, so very exposed. It’s so easy, after all this time, he could kill him, _he could kill him—_

But he doesn’t. Monday just carefully, respectfully, slides something over to the boy.

Not his knife, or even Today's.

It's Fortnight's, filched from the dining room, with sprinkles of rust and a clean, toxic edge.

"Slow him down," he says.

Seven doesn’t respond. Not for a long while.

But he does, eventually.

It's a little too small for his bony fingers, so small it looks like a toy.

_A new fang._

The dragon shifts.

Monday lets him, watching the boy gets unsteadily to his feet. Willing Seven's gaze to stay on the gallery and not on him.

Hoping against all hope that after weeks and weeks of agonizing over how to defeat Decade's dragon, he'd really managed to talk his way out of its flame.

Seven’s eyeliner's smudged, but his gaze is blacker than ever.

Like coal in a fire it grows hotter by the second.

And Monday can see that blinding rage take him one atom at a time, until his limbs twitch and wind up tight —

he's on the stairs.

Bounding to the landing, clearing the distance in one leap, one blade clenched in each clawed hand.

Catching himself on the viewing gallery railings, vaulting over with ease.

And then, he’s gone.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter onwards: character death  
> (there was no avoiding it we're sorry)

Monday uncoils. He rolls on his back, gasping for air, heart pounding a mile a minute.

He knew how close to death he was, he's never been closer.

It feels like an eternity before he’s able to move again. Getting up on his elbows, crying out at each ache and twinge that shoots up his limbs as the adrenaline fades. He’d always had too much pride to make a noise when he’s in pain, but he’s past that now. He’s long past a lot of things. 

The air is full of so much moonlit dust, floating without a care in the world. Now that the adrenaline’s faded, it’s like Monday sees the room for what it really is — no longer the gilded haven of his memories but a deadened empty thing, with smeary glass and scratches on the floor and a piano with slack strings that hadn’t been tuned in years and years.

A viewing gallery with cobwebbed, grimy banisters, looking out over nothing. 

_ Was Decade even there? Would Seven find him? _

Inevitably, he finds himself on the stairs. He mounts them.

_ Does he even want to trawl through the guts of Tartarus again? _

He reaches the first landing. The gallery is an entire floor away — he can’t jump it, not like Seven. He follows the dark corridor, in.

_ Does he want to find them? _

Monday doesn't know. His plans, years upon years of it, never went this far.

At first, Monday thinks he lost the trail. But after a few steps and turns the corridors become redder, splashed over in blood. Bodies still twitching and gurgling, all sorts of fluids spurting from jagged wounds by a blade he knows too well — the bite of toothed knives.

He follows the carnage. Trying not to look at their faces.

_ "Good news, boys," _ crackles Nine — it sounds like a dream, a voice down a tunnel.  _ "The blues made it. Lost the twins, but they're forming the perimeter as we speak." _

_ "Cool," _ responds Fortnight, exhausted.  _ "De Vis probably kicked their fucking butts, huh." _

_ "Right. How're you doing in there?" _

_ "Uh, lotsa dead people. Not me, or Yestie. So guess that's good." _

_ "And Decade?" _

_ "No fucking clue." _

He knows all the rooms this time — he’s back in the master’s quarters, after the dragon’s chase plunged him down into the bowels of the dungeon. And it’s an odd sight, seeing all these perfect rooms now soiled and sullied — that precise, pristine, punitive perfection finally torn asunder. Like this house is finally what it was meant to be, what it was destined to become all along. 

The dining hall with its great oak table splintered apart. The quaint little pantries now as cloying crimson as the kitchens below, their everyday bloodshed oozing to the surface at last. His own room, untouched — he thinks of Seven’s little hard-won square, crammed with every precious thing of his and his alone, a mirror adorned with lipstick letters spelling out a name, an idea, that consumed a brain from inside out and rotted it.

Monday notices the trail has changed. The splashes begin to shrink, to smears, to drops. 

Drops still in motion when they fell.

_ "Monday? I hear you breathing, boy, you ok?" _

And as he reaches the entrance foyer, his breath stops. Everything stops.

_ "Monday?" _

It's like watching one of those film noir shows, the first movie he ever watched.

Silent, and choppy, and surreal. Like everything's just puppets on a stage—

Seven. Launching himself at Decade, and the two going down.

He knows Seven's screaming. It comes from an entire world away, but that ungodly sound, that unfettered rage and pain, it can come from nobody else. 

And he sees that unmistakable steak knife, glinting, glinting, glinting.

There's  _ so much blood. _

"He's here," Monday whispers.

_ "Do you need help?" _ asks Nine.  _ "Just say the word, we'll get to you—" _

"No… no."

The line goes silent. They're all at a point, perhaps, they never thought they'd reach.

It's just red on white, everywhere.

And his father, in the middle of it, coughing up white foam as his son hacks into him, as his son cries, "Daddy why? Daddy why why  _ why WHY?” _

Monday descends the stairs slowly.

“I thought you loved me why did you lie to me, did you really not love me at all, Daddy, Daddy  _ please _ I tried so hard to be good for you I tried so hard to be a good boy I gave you  _ everything I had _ but you couldn’t even  _ give me _ the  _ truth—” _

With both fists he plunges the knife down. The sound Decade makes, it's clear he won't last much longer.

"When will I ever be good enough so you'll love me!"

_ Clink. _

Monday freezes.  _ Clink.  _ Fort’s knife clatters down the stairs.  _ Clink clink. _ Monday must have kicked it—

Seven snaps upright.

_ No. _

Seven turns. Slowly. Teeth red. Skin red. Eyes red.

Monday tenses, feeling the breath stolen from him again, ready to bolt if Seven—

The boy comes back to himself in a rush. 

He looks down.

Gazes at his dying father. 

And lets out a cry.

“D… Daddy?”

From his vantage point Monday can see Seven's face twisting as his knees buckle. As he grabs Decade's shoulders in his bloodied hands like he can pull the man back from the brink of death, away from what he’s done. As he looks upon the damage he’s done to his  _ father, _ who was the only person he’s ever loved, even if it was all a lie —

“I… oh god, I did this? N-No. Nonono nonono nono no no no  _ no. No p-please. No.” _

Crumpling over his father’s bloodied body with a wretched sob that echoes.

“No, no daddy, daddy, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it I’m sorry I’m  _ so sorry…” _

Pulls his father close for perhaps the first time, pressing his forehead to Decade’s like he’s seen children and parents do in all his favorite books, his sooty tears tracking clear lines across Decade’s bloodstained skin—

“Daddy, please, I-I didn’t m-mean to, I… please, c-c-come back…”

His too-skinny frame weighed down with all the sins he’s done and more.

It is a small, scared boy that whispers hoarsely, through tears, 

"Dad?"

And when he receives no response, he turns to the last person he can.

To Monday.

And Monday recognises. That resigned emptiness in his eyes. That shadow that eclipses his soul. The regret, dark as years gone by.

Seven, broken like just another one of his toys,

_ They’re right. Everyone’s right. _

a boy that should never have been,

_ I’m a monster. That’s all I’ll ever be. _

a child that nobody could love.

"It's alright, Seven." Monday does his best to smile. Like a mother to her child, scraped and dirty from a day in the park. "Run along now."

_ It's alright. _

Seven closes his eyes.

Breathes. 

Like just hearing it soothes all the aches and wounds he’s ever amassed from since he was taken from his family and packed away into a cold box out at sea.

Monday sees the red dot appear in Seven's forehead before he hears the gunshot.

Even before the body goes limp he's turning to see Ten at the top of the stairs, lowering her gun. She looks very tired. You probably never really get over killing someone, not like this.

She walks past Monday towards the body — Seven's face is slack, like he's just the slightest bit surprised — and she places her gun softly on his chest. 

Pauses a long while.

"Decade's still holding on," she says, eventually. "I'll give you two your privacy."

"Thanks," says Monday, for many things. But Ten doesn't hear it, merely walks right past the bodies and up the stairs on the other side, slipping into the darkness beyond.

Monday advances in her tracks. 

Gazes upon Seven, his dead eyes still leaking sooty tears. Letting him live would have been cruel, he was too fragile, too broken to deal with the truth. If only there was another way but it was kinder like this, it had to be— 

Gazes upon Decade.

The old man's heaving vainly for breath, hatred shining in his faded gold eyes.

"You've… won.” Decade forces every word like it’s killing him. "Are you... finally satisfied?"

"Maybe."

Monday stands before him, Fort's knife in one hand, Today's in the other. Even now, he can't let down his guard. "It's nothing personal, promise."

"It's… never personal… for you."

Decade's gaze wavers. He's slipping.

"So… what do you… want… to hear… from your old man?"

"Nothing more. You've told me many things. And taught me much."

Decade laughs. It's too soft to know if it's bitter. His gaze hardens, just a little. "Thought you… weren't… a murderer."

"Just a thief who stole a couple of knives." Monday quirks the faintest smile. "I know, it's a cop-out. Bear with me."

"All you needed… was a reason. Even… without that boy… you would’ve… killed me anyway.”

"You say that like I've always wanted to kill you. But Dad."

His eyes shine a little, and his smile grows to fight it.

"I loved you. I really did."

His fists clench the knives he doesn't need to use.

“And I think you know you had to die. You always ran from it.”

He’s not quite ready to continue, but he knows he’s running out of time.

"You die for your crimes against thousands of people and thousands of children. And for killing your own daughter, because she scared you. I've been told," his breath hitches, "that is not what a father does."

Decade watches with his pale, washed out eyes.

His breath growing weaker with every word.

"No last words? Pity."

Monday unlocks his wrists, letting the knives hang slack in his fingers.

It feels like a duty to wait, and he does. He stares as the last lights to flicker out behind the man's eyes, as the lacerated throat utters its last rattle, breathing nothing.

Monday learns that in death, there is really so little left. The man could be anyone.

And so he ransacks the corpse, like any self-respecting thief would do. First, Fort's knife lying a few inches away, its poisonous sheen obscured with even slicker crimson. Then the half-crooked blade cradled in a stiffening hand — it's always nice to have a matching set.

A blood-spotted handkerchief, a fountain pen, a pocket watch, a ring of keys, a shattered pager (his phone was elsewhere, he hated being disturbed at dinner) — Monday tosses the hankie and stows the rest.

He considers the glasses, despite his perfect eyesight, and ends up taking them too. They'd make a pretty penny on eBay, if it came down to it.

And finally, he gets back on his feet and gazes upon the man with no one, with nothing.

"Goodbye, Mr Decade," he says. He does not cry.


	38. Chapter 38

That done, Monday looks to the door — he knows he can't leave alone.

"Fort."

_"Yeah, still looking, man. No one's seen your cop. Sure he didn't fuck off on his own?"_

"No, he… he couldn't."

_"Fuck, man. Okay, uh… Who was in charge of him?"_

"De — Decade. Seven." He shakes himself — there's something rising in his throat, bile and fear. "Three and Four."

_"And the first two are with you, right?"_

"Yeah."

_"Then it's those other two fucks. We'll find them, hang on—"_

But Monday's already running. He knows exactly where they are.

There's a special place for Decade's special belongings, people and pets. It's deep in Tartarus, even deeper than the anterooms, almost impossible to find by those who've never been there before — and Monday’s one of them but oh the stories he’s heard, of that soundless place where not even a demon could hear the screams.

The punishment place. Monday sprints down hallway after hallway, into the library and through the back shelves and he’s in the anterooms again, walls lined with doors upon doors upon doors, and he thanks the gods he went down here just now because he faintly remembers one door standing out from all the others — even as it kills him to think September might have been here all along, and he’d run right past him.  

The door opens to cavernous stairs snaking further underground. At the bottom, there’s another flight of them and down he goes, deeper and deeper and deeper until _finally_ this must be the end — a long, narrow hallway of death bookended by heavy metal double-doors guarded by the last living Hours in the house.

He slashes their necks without hesitation — he's already killed his father, what's two more — Three's gurgling scream as her jugular spurts before her eyes, Four's hellish chuckle dwindling and dying forever as his overweight bulk sinks to the ground where it belongs.

Maybe Sept will be disappointed. But Monday has a hunch he'll be a tad too preoccupied to notice.

He knows, deep in his soul, what he'll find in that room.

And somehow it’s still worse than anything he ever thought he'd see.

An ugly mechanical beast in the middle of the floor, black cylinders with wire veins and panels for scales. More tubing and wires reaching towards all corners of the room, disappearing into the drywall. Surely connected to smaller ones, scattered all across the foundations of the house.

And kneeling in front of it, arms cuffed behind him and surely connected to the metal bits of the whirring monster behind him, is September. September, head drooping, a soiled strip of cloth tied cruelly tight around his face, two blooming spots of red at his lips. September, with eyes so glassy and vacant it shocks Monday to his core.

And the heavy metal collar lit up comically from the front.

2:01

2:00

1:59

"What the — Fort, get everyone out." Nothing but static. "Nine? _Fort!"_

It's no use. The signal's too weak down here.

Monday’s on his knees, ripping off the disgusting rag from September's face and using a knife to unscrew the back panel from September's collar.

The end of the leash is locked in the machine, somewhere, and knowing Tartarus it’d go up in flames if he so much as pressed the wrong panel. With any luck, the whole apparatus is rigged to blow when the collar does — he doesn't have time to disarm more than one bomb, he doesn't have any _goddamn_ time.

And leaning over to work at the back of the collar, Monday sees — September’s bloodied pinky twisted at an awkward, unnatural angle. He remembers how oddly bloody Four’s hands were.

"Septie," he chokes around his terror. "Septie, I'm so sorry."

It’s a while before September seems to even notice.

"A yellow—" His voice is so mauled, god, he’s delirious with pain. "Decade's office. Yellow binder… If you decode, and, the thumbdrive, 103—, 1035 Cinnabar Street—”

“No.”

“The FBI — you can bring him down—”

_“No.”_

Monday rips off the panel. It skids on the ground with a clang. The sound shocks September back into the present. Monday sees it in his eyes, how he finally comes back into focus.

"If it makes you feel better —" he pauses to take in the tangle of wires before him, eyes darting everywhere to find the paths he remembers, that he hopes he remembers from years and years ago — "there's no way I would get there in one minute forty-three seconds."

September hangs his head. "You can't stay… Please.”

"I know what I'm doing."

"Just leave. You can still make it—"

_"NO!!"_

It tears out of him like never before.

"I left you once. Don't. Make me do it again."

September doesn't respond to that.

There's silence as Monday works. Then a single, horrifying beep — Monday hopes September doesn't feel his fingers flinch on his neck.

"M… Monday…” oh, how he’s missed September saying his name, like it’s everything he’s needed — “I… I just… wanted to thank you. For everything."

The cop cranes his neck to look at him, eyes damp.

"I didn't think… I could ever love someone again."

Those words feel months old, like they've been stewing in these cold empty rooms, when September had nothing else to cling to.

"And I thought I'd never be loved," breathes Monday. "I should be thanking you."

Another beep, louder and harsher than the first. Slowly, Monday lifts his hands from the wires — he's just glad September can't see him, not from here.

1:00.

"I wonder what would happen if I just." He laughs, he can't help it. "Ripped out all the wires. Just... reached in there."

September raises his head tiredly. "It doesn't matter. Forget it. Just come over here."

One look at the mess he's made and Monday knows there's nothing more he can do.

He goes to September. With the way his body leans forward, straining at the bonds at his wrists, he's almost exactly at Monday's eye level.

All this time, Monday's been the one kissing him.

It feels good, right, to have September kiss him now, at the end of all things.

"I love you," says Monday. The surest statement in the world. "So much."

September's smiling now, softly, against Monday's lips. "I love you too."

The cop closes his eyes and leans forward, and the kiss is nothing like passion and fury, or a hurried chaste gesture—

They take their time.

The kiss to end all things.

And then Monday's boy just can't take it anymore. With a hitched breath he's going limp against the metal, and he cries and cries and cries.

"Hey. Hey."

Monday takes September's face in his hands, wiping his tears and kissing his cheek again and again. He's smiling, as best as he can. Though his eyes are certainly shining too.

"It's okay. Everything's okay."

"I — oh god, Monday. I was supposed to bring you home, to my f-family. And show you what that feels like. I wanted to do so many things for you, I, I wanted to see you happy, I."

He takes a shuddering breath.

"Monday. I'm sorry."

"No, no, you're not allowed to be sorry. Look at what we've had. Look at what we've done."

September leans into Monday's touch, starved for it, his tears pearling in Monday's palm. "Are you happy, Monday?”

"Of course." Monday closes his eyes; his own tears fall. "I've never been happier."

"Okay.” September smiles, just a little, blearily. “Then I’m happy too.”

He lets out a sigh, the saddest Monday's heard.

"I'll miss you."

"You don't have to."

Maybe September can't see it, but Monday's smile is the widest yet — filled with a fierce, fierce joy.

"I'll never leave you again."

0:00.

.

.

.

-0:01.

-0:02.

“Oh god,” says September hoarsely, when nothing happens, “The afterlife sucks.”

Monday, who looks almost as shocked as September does, splutters.

"Sure, Septie, whatever you like. You’re in heaven," he replies. "And I'm the angel who brought you back to life."

Now that he knows it’s disarmed he can finally do what he’s wanted to do since he stepped foot in here. Wrapping his arms around September's neck, Monday works open a tightly-clasped latch and removes the collar at last.

He turns it around in his hands with the timer clearly visible, counting down its negative seconds.

"What do you know, it actually worked."

September doesn’t say anything, just stares at those two metal halves like he can’t believe his eyes.

And then he begins to laugh. “This is it? You… the other hours, Decade? Seven? Yestie and Fort—”

"Hey, hey, slow down. Don't worry about any of that, it's all over."

It's like he realises it as he says it. A smile grows on his face too, bubbling with laughter, lighter than September's ever seen.

"You hear that, Septie? It's over."


	39. Chapter 39

Tartarus' front yard is the liveliest it’s been, red and blue lights streaking across the desert sands.

The FBI would arrive to find the mafia rats already flushing out of their nest, frantic and wounded — a shockingly easy raid for the fabled  _ Tempus, _ the nigh-on largest crime operation in the country. Officially the result of internal conflict, exploited by law enforcement upon a tip-off by known defector Monday Blue. The only significant complication was an ambush by two female operatives en route to the hideout, and even then they were dispatched almost single-handedly by Officer Paul De Vis, though ultimately evading capture.

They were, according to official record, the only ones who escaped. Once the perimeter was formed, no rat was allowed to slip through. 

But Monday, watching from the rooftop in the shadow of a protruding window, knows that the dissenting rats were nowhere to be found.

They're still criminals after all, every one of them. Even for Monday himself — Agent Doberman had promised something close to amnesty before, but Doberman's so much dog food now.

So here Monday stands, watching as the blues extract body after body out of the front door. Most of them covered, one with black-nailed hands dangling below the tarp and off the stretcher — one with cuffs bloodied but still perfectly buttoned at the wrist.

And one September Redmond with a toffee-coloured lieutenant supporting him by the shoulder, as it should be.

Monday absently plays with the little radio under his tongue. It's been silent for a while now — with all the blood and dust he's swallowed, he wouldn't be surprised if it had finally given up the ghost.

But at that moment, he makes out a voice through the static. A new voice.

_ "Well I'll be fucking damned, Monday Blue. You really did it. The cops are here in Tartarus, and I haven't gone down with the hydra like I thought. And you even got your boy out alive." _

It's Ten, sounding tinny and a little distorted, but Monday can recognise her smile anywhere.

"You flatter me," Monday replies, grinning in return. "I had a lot of help."

_ "Yeah, your buddies in Asphodel. Twelve is still laughing like a madman in the other channel and I can't blame him. How was the place? Good service? Food? Wifi?" _

"Lovely. The breakfast service was amazing, and I could watch Desperate Housewives  _ every _ day."

Down below, September's greeted with cheers as some of the younger officers run to greet him. And the detective is even smiling, despite his wounds and bruises. De Vis actually has to hold some of them off.

"So what now? What's next for you?"

_ "Haven't the foggiest idea, dear Monday. Feels kinda strange being free. But the civilian life just isn't for people like us." _

"No, it's not. Hard to imagine what comes  _ after. _ But you know. We're still young. So much ahead of us."

He watches as the ambulance rolls up to collect his cop.

_ "Ha. If I heard that five years ago I'd have socked you through the radio. Listen, Monday. You're a good guy. Young, idealistic. With heart. But like I said. As fucked up as all of this is, I can’t run from it. And really, I'd be thrilled if you could join me. As equals." _

A pause.

_ "Maybe even friends." _

Down below, September pauses just before he gets into the ambulance, eyes drifting over the rooftops.

"I appreciate that. I really do."

Monday waves with his fingers, though he doesn't expect September to see him.

"But I know what makes me happy."

Still, he does. September grins a special grin, one reserved for Monday only — it lights his entire face.

He knows September would wave back, but De Vis is already pushing him into the ambulance, out of sight.

_ "Ew, cooties."  _ The voice on the line softens. _ "But I'm glad for you. If that's what you want, then hold him tight and never let go. I wish you happiness — well, happiness and legal protection, that will come in handy when you're tryna put a ring on him." _

She snorts at her own joke.

_ "And follow up on Eleven's girl, you hear? Poor guy deserves that much." _

"Have you heard from him? Ven?"

_ "Eleven? Oh, no. Eleven hasn't had a word for anyone this last week. Once the blues show up he gets on his knees in the driveway, hands behind his head, waiting for someone to cuff him. Think he's actually glad to be in there. Can't relate." _

"Completely agree. Bondage’s no fun without a safeword.”

_ “Oh my  _ lord. _ Should’ve known you’ll always be this goddamn insufferable.” _

Monday laughs in a way that's more like a sigh. "Seriously, though. I’ve spent less than a night in a cell and that’s more than enough for me. Rest assured, I won't be following the captain’s lead."

He shrugs.

"I'll count on my cop."

_ "He was counting on you too, you know. Redmond. You have a fine eye. Well, I gotta run. Think a couple blues are on to me — hey, Monday. I'm glad you never turned out like Decade. You're too good for him." _

"Thank you."

As the ambulance packs up and its driver slams the doors shut, Monday's face looks the slightest bit sad.

"Goodbye, Abigail."

A pause, longer than the first.

_ "Aren't you the gift that keeps on giving," _ is the murmured reply.  _ "Take care of yourself." _

One final  _ Krttz _ marks her departure, and the line goes flat.

With a final slam of the driver's door, the ambulance sputters up its engine and leaves. So do the rest of the vehicles — the vans with their prisoners and their corpses, the cars with their officers and once-officer. The blues take their photographs and evidence and the yellow binder that Redmond's certainly clued them in on and Tartarus empties, at last.

And Monday lingers as the police lights fade into the horizon, as the house recedes into darkness and the boy melts into the shadows, until he's not there at all.

 


	40. Chapter 40

The hardest part of recovery, really, isn't the medicine or being prodded with needles. 

It's the paperwork. The forms to fill, lines to sign on. All the goddamn constant  _ reports.  _ It’s like they don't even care that the cast makes his signature even worse than it already is. Two months off the grid and suddenly every officer and their boss is coming after him for something or other. (Being a prisoner of Tempus —  _ hostage _ is the official term for it, but really, one look at September and it's hard to keep to the book — has probably helped make him all the more in demand. Great.) 

Two days. Two days of statement after statement after statement. Sept didn't endure hell in that hell-house and claw his humanity back just to lose his fucking mind over paperwork because. Oh. God. If Tartarus hadn’t done it then this stupid-ass red tape absolutely will. Mafia boss? Oh, no — the real terrors are these nurses with eyes like hawks and ears like mice and _Mr. Redmond, you're still on bed rest, please don't get up —_ He’s _fine,_ for fuck's sake, just a little cut up and a little lighter than before but that's it. 

And even despite  _ all of that, _ all it takes is a ring file thicker than his arm, and he's out in the corridors in no time. Fifteen minutes between the nurses’ patrols, it's plenty of time. He even bothers to take his IV with him (he knows better now, after the earful from the last orderly, way back when Karika was his biggest concern). 

There's only one place to go.

He hears them first, Paul's bubbling laugh and Mina's ugly snorts.

"... and you wouldn't believe the view, Mina. Just sand on sand on sand. It's probably full of scorpions or ants. Or—" with a gasp, "Antlions."

Another laugh. "Alright, alright— Hey, stop it! I'm getting to the good bit. So the snipers are below, right, and I'm pretty sure they don't have the firepower to take down the apache — I was thinking, like, real nice of homeland to lend us a hummingbird, right? I think it was one of Doberman's friends — er, right. They let me off on the roof and I just run."

A pause. "What do you mean was I scared of bullets? Of course I was scared, I was  _ terrified! _ But thankfully Jamie got a good eye on them, I think they only had enough time to set up the sniper rifle, not the semi-automatic — mhmm. Yeah."

And then, softer, "Mhmm, they're the two who got you."

So Mina made it. He's not gonna lie, back in Tartarus Mina and Paul were never off his mind for long. They saved him when he had nothing else. Thinking about the boxes of PB&J sandwiches Mina kept ordering in bulk, so many that the precinct freezer was stuffed full with them; the loud chirp of Paul's escaping pet grasshopper, or pet dragonfly — one time one of those critters bit Ven, that was hilarious — 

Oh, how he's missed them.

Mina honestly looks great — but after a couple of months in hospital, it would be worrying if she wasn't. September's seen the twitching victims of Fort's poison-edged knives in Tartarus and it's even more of a miracle that Mina's alive and kicking now, with only a hint of jaundice and darkness under her eyes to suggest she was ever on the edge in the first place.

"Redmond!" Her voice, still wobbly, cracks on the  _ ed. _ "Damn, you really went through the wringer, man. Sure you wanna be running around?"

September realises he's standing tiltedly in the doorway doing nothing but stare.

And he doesn't even notice Mina's hand down Paul's shirt. He's getting sloppy.

_ "No, _ he definitely shouldn't be running around," Paul says, at the same time September replies, “I was having shit rest in there anyway."

Paul gives September a dirty look, but it's on the verge of a smile. He could never keep a poker face anyway. 

“Hey boss, you look… really bad.”

“No shit.” September huffs, then waves off Paul who's gotten up so he could sit. 

“So many wicked scars, man.  _ Niiiiiiiice." _ Mina's clearly thrilled. "Dude, you need to tell me everything. Can't believe I missed so much of this shit." She catches herself. "If you wanna talk about it, I mean. Paul's telling me plenty. Like how worried he was, isn't that sweet —"

“Nah, I wanna know about the operation -- snipers, huh?"

Sept and Paul exchange the briefest of glances. Mina can find out through a watered down official report, sans gritty details.

"Yeah," says Paul, easily losing himself in his story. "So they're there. They're  _ twins—" _

"Enn and Ann," adds September.

"Oh, okay, so Enn and Ann. I go after the sniper first, because the rest of the task force's waiting on me, see. And let me tell you, that sniper isn't worth shit in hand to hand."

It's the first time Paul's ever sounded venomous.

"It's a walk in the park. But her sister, she's fast. She saves her before I can arrest her."

He falls silent, gaze suddenly heavy — not like him at all. 

"I've... never seen anyone look so sad. She's holding her unconscious sister in her arms, and she's looking at me like I'm a monster."

Mina slips her hand over his and squeezes softly, eyes tender. Paul gives her a weak smile, sad and pained around the edges.

"I... I just couldn't move. Couldn't do anything, just watched them escape. I don't know if I did the right thing."

"Hey," September says. "It's okay. Plan would've gone bust if you hadn't stepped in."

"Yeah, man,” agrees Mina. “Arrests are one thing, but y'know, greater good, all that stuff."

She grins. "As long as you're happy, I am."

"Gross," deadpans September, while Paul couldn't be more delighted. He's actually  _ blushing,  _ Sept’s more amazed the guy has a shred of modesty in himself at all--  

"Oh, babe, you're the best. And I really mean you're the best. I was afraid I'd let you down or something."

_ “Gross.” _

Paul and Mina are three inches and one eyelash flutter away from a rabid makeout. Doesn't matter Sept's there. Or even the people passing by, even though a few certainly linger to side-eye the manhandling. Sept wants to melt into the ground.

"Anyway," says Sept, "Thanks, Paul. You saved a lot of lives."

To Mina, "Your super gross boyfriend's a hero."

"He is," she murmurs back. "He's my super gross, sentimental, badass hero."

She leans into Paul's touch, closing her eyes... 

And then, opens one of them, glancing towards the door.

"Is that...?"

There's a figure standing just beyond the doorframe. Wearing a threadbare collegiate sweater no doubt pilfered from a Lawsone U lost and found, cyan glasses askew from a long night of unproductive mugging, soft brown hair just a shade darker than Paul's.

Of course, it's Ben. Dover, Denni, doesn't matter — by now it's clear they're one and the same.

"Monday!"

Paul and Mina watch Sept break into the sappiest grin they've ever seen — they exchange glances,  _ dude, the boss is In Love With Him _ — as he shuffles in to give Ben/Monday room.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear, it's the weekend," sighs Ben. It's a weary, tender overture. "See, I came to see a loved one. Extremely injured, poor thing. But then I found out my dumb boyfriend left his ward..."

Mina snorts, immediately catching Ben's attention. He sobers.

"Miss Cara, I —"

"Nope. Not you too. I've hit my quota of mopey bedside blokes for the day." Mina smiles. "You took down your whole empire for us. That goes a long way to squaring things. Right, Paul?"

Paul doesn't think so, and that's not discrete. Gazes at Mina, then September (who's doing his best to not look hopeful), and then hesitantly at Monday.

"I..." his throat bobs. And finally, he cracks a thin smile. "If that's enough for Mina, then that'll be enough for me. And umm.... s... sorry for punching you in holdings."

"You heard Miss Cara. No moping allowed in this room." Ben offers Paul a lopsided grin. "If you need to beat me up a little more, just say the word. There's a lot I could learn from you."

"Hey,” says September. “Whatever is happening between you two, it needs to stop."

"Thanks," says Paul, meaning it.

"Hey, the fuck did I say?"

"Don't get mad boss, you might burst a blood vessel somewhere."

"Paul you —"

_ "Enough,  _ children," Mina laughs. "Ben, you wanna take Redmond back to his ward?"

"With pleasure."

Ben gestures to September with a nod of his head, walking to the door.

"Thank you," he adds, turning back. "Both of you."

Paul looks at Mina, smiling with a shake of his head. "It's like you didn't even  _ hear _ what my babe said. All in the line of duty, Mr. Ben."

September makes an impressed grunt and gets a head start into the corridor, with Ben close behind.

"Bye, Mr Ben!" yells Mina, as much as she can raise her voice. "Make sure you kiss him better, alright?"

And Monday, he can't help it — he grins as he catches up to September, gently supporting one arm as they go.

 

When they get back to September's ward, Monday closes the door and allows September to settle himself while he sits on the bedside chair.

The energy's different between them. No market or mall to sprint through, no bomb to defuse, no madman to kill.

"How are you?" Monday asks, not saying anything about the scars under his untidy grown-out hair, or the way his voice sounds like it's rusted through, like every syllable hurts no matter how still he keeps his mouth — 

"Good. A while since I slept on a bed." September props himself up against the headboard. "Jamie's helping me investigate the shipments. There's not much. I'll follow up once I'm out."

Sept pauses to gather his thoughts.

"And you? Running again?"

"Technically, Septie, I'm still running. As long as the big man hasn't decided to drop my charges." It sounds like a nag, but Monday’s tone is nothing but soft. Fond. "I know you'll do your best, so don't worry about it."

His gaze hovers between the bed and the floor, pensive.

"...I went to see Evelyn yesterday."

_ Evie.  _ September’s immediately alert. "She okay?”

"She's doing just fine, her nanny's an absolute  _ miracle.  _ And I suppose Ven wasn't much of a homebody in the first place." Ben smiles at Sept, a little cheeky. "She's willing to take Evie in, so we don't have to straight up  _ adopt _ her if you're not ready for it."

“We?” September smirks.  _ Boyfriend,  _ Monday had called him, he's not going to let him live that down. But for now he lets it go. “Either way. It's all on Ven.”

Monday's smile only widens. "How about I leave it up to you, sweetie? After all, I'm sure you'll be the primary caretaker."

"You can surprise her with magic tricks," September nods. Then, he sobers up. "Monday... I've been thinking about… that dinner."

_ The dinner in Tartarus.  _ Monday doesn’t need Sept to say it to know what it is, and won’t make him.

"It was probably an act,” September continues, “but I really thought… I was afraid. I didn't mean to doubt you. Sorry." 

But Monday only shrugs. "Hey, you weren't wrong. If we didn't have backup coming, I would have. As long as it meant you'd be alive. Or I'd have come up with a better option."

_ "Oh." _ September's throat bobs. "Right."

They’re silent for a bit. It’s a reminder of what’s beyond these walls, what landed them here in the first place — that underneath the ratty sweater and blocky hipster glasses, Monday Blue is from a very different world.

September murmurs, "DA says you're getting immunity soon.”

Monday briefly closes his eyes, exhales softly through his nose. He seems to have been waiting for this. “Thank you.”

“So what now?” says September, not wanting to sound too hopeful. “I’m sure you won’t get caught again.You can go mess with the rich and get away with it. Going back to being Conrad’s modern Robin Hood?"

"Hmm. Would it shock you if I said no?"

It  _ does _ shock September that he said no.

"After all, I have a child to think about now! A clean slate's a big deal, it would be  _ rude _ to waste it. Time to live the straight and narrow."

September stares at him. Just… stares. Even now, the phantom thief is still so able to surprise him. "Who are you and what have you done with my Monday.” 

Ah, he's smiling again.

"Thought you didn't do well with kids."

"I'll get over it."

Monday’s gaze is clear and direct, with no trace of a lie — perhaps for the first time. "I want to be with you."

And this time when September goes silent again, he doesn't speak again.

"What, you thought I was just going to leave? After all we've been through."

Monday doesn't finish his sentence. Sept's wrist has snaked out and he's pulling Monday close, cradling the back of Monday's head for the perfect angle and this time neither of them let up until they're breathless and a little ragged and  _ god, _ the kiss feels like everything they've waited for and more.

"I love you, September Red." Monday grins, arms slung over his shoulders as September smiles a starstruck smile. "We're going to have _ so much fun  _ together."

 


	41. Chapter 41

When the paperless, nameless boy plucked from the depths of Tartarus received his amnesty and enrolled in the Conrad Police Academy on special admission, he signed his forms as David Lundi. The first name was reasonable — the first he remembered having, from a time that barely mattered. The last name was _obnoxious._ He procured many reasons claiming the name without a drop of French blood, the worst of which was when his boyfriend called him Monday, he would really be saying _My David_ in that language (the most romantic in the world! — and upon hearing this, his boyfriend in blue blushed red like the French flag). Far too much thought for a name born out of whimsy. For all anyone knew, he'd dreamt of it for a very long time.

Nevertheless, Monday was still his favourite. He went by it in the academy, blithely denying all connection to the infamous thief who had since disappeared from the streets of Conrad, though there wasn't a soul who believed him. By the time he graduated second in his class six months later — points docked for marksmanship, shots always landing an inch shy of the heart — and got a uniform with D. LUNDI printed on the badge, he switched it out for plain BLUE and no one said a word. That is, until he reported for his first day at Conrad Police District HQ and Chief Inspector September Redmond swiped the badge from his chest, replacing it with a proper one he had at the ready. Of course, Monday didn't mind a bit. Not with six more months of field training to look forward to — six months of department-sanctioned harassment of his chief, with liberal helpings of office makeouts on the side.

Redmond himself was quite a different picture. Standing a little taller, a little prouder, if that were possible, as if Redmond wasn't already proud of his job in the first place. A Chief Inspector's posture — even though the brown, ratty trenchcoat Monday knows to be stained on the inside continues to be Redmond's go-to when he's not on Official Business. Monday's heard it all. _You're applying for the Conrad force? With that scarred, beat up Chief? I heard he killed someone_ — Oh, how far the rumours fly. He just shrugs and nods and pretends it doesn't ache when he sees the bruises that remain dark and the crooked scars that never can seem to heal.

September insists it no longer hurts, but surely it must — in the dead of night when September jerks up in bed, shaking, gasping for breath, a hand going to fight the phantom grip of a metal collar. Monday wakes (of course he does, sometimes those nightmares haunt him too, in a different way) and he'll always lean in to kiss that sweaty forehead, running his hand through mildly shaggy hair grown out over ridged scars — and for as many times Monday says "I'm sorry", in words or otherwise, September replies "It's not your fault" as if it could ever never be. So Monday simply carries it with him, his very own metaphorical knife, safely stored between his ribs and over his heart in a bite only he can feel.

It’s so hard _not_ to, really, not when the roundabout, verbose September Redmond Monday knows has disappeared for someone more muted, like a dulled blade. Like he’s not used to having his voice again. Sometimes — many times, actually — Monday sees September gazing at nothing, lost in a world way out in the desert, deep in the hard baked ground. The days pass and the months pass and those ugly scars stay, and Monday begins to lose hope that September will ever heal.

Until one day he finds that the precinct has transformed. Every writing utensil, personal affect, and office decoration is encased delicately in aluminum foil — a feat that must've taken _hours._

Mina's collapsing in hysterics on Paul's slight, sturdy shoulders, they’re somehow far less surprised than they are thrilled. The passing officers have nothing but a shake of the head and a veiled, fond smile. And then Monday sees how September merely leans against the wall, lip quirked, saying nothing, not swearing — just a little too uninvolved to be uninvolved... and that's how they are, over the days and months, an objectively horrible but subjectively amazingly team all trying to one-up each other with fart cushions and live animals under the desks, the rowdiest ship helmed by the incorrigible prankster he should have known — already knew — that September Redmond has always been, all along.

It's strange how new things become comfy, become home. Monday swiftly claims the desk opposite Paul and beside Mina, mostly because no one wants anything to do with the absolute chaos that soon reigns in his territory — cascading piles of identical blue ballpoints, a pushpin-festooned map of Conrad taped over his desktop monitor (he just flips the thing up every day, who _does_ that), and an elaborate filing system of papers stacked on three extra swivel chairs he isn't technically allowed to have. If September hates it he can't say it, because he was right about having Monday on the blues. He more than proves himself.

They spend a year burning out the last tendrils of Tempus, and will spend years more making sure every child returns home. Or as many as they can, or as many as they can write in to the FBI for, sending request after information request which seem to lose effect over time because the investigation is _not_ theirs to run. It kills Monday, who's always been near the top whether he liked it or not. And Chief Redmond, for all his merits, isn't the best person to teach him how to listen.

Chief Redmond, the one who clashes with his bosses up in Alpha Police Plaza for hours on end only to return to the precinct with a slump of his shoulders matching the weariness in his eyes. Dogged, dogged September has never known when to quit — what makes this even worse is how Redmond is most certainly doing this all for him, because he knows how much it means to Monday (to David?) making sure those kids can go back home.

So it's no surprise that they’ve both have gotten into teensy spots of trouble, maybe once or twice or even fifteen times, trying to get a leg up and a foot in the case, FBI be damned. Monday's got the know-how and September's got the instincts, after all. "Just wait," September always tells him, "Something good will happen if we keep fighting."

But Redmond, _he's_ the one who needs someone to fight, someone to oppose. Monday knows he misses Ven, even after all the horrible things he'd done. Maybe Ven had gotten strings pulled to get here, but when his name inevitably comes up in conversation (well, they're in a police precinct, jail's not that far removed) everyone seems to have something kind about him to say.

It explains why, when Ven makes his appearance at the Precinct, it's September who breathes, "Chief?"

Much to the bemusement of the older man, who's never looked less like a chief in his life: salt and pepper hair grown more salt over two years in prison (let out for good behaviour), crisp coat and shirt switched out for a... slightly less crisp coat and shirt but with far too many creases than he'd ever be caught dead with before. But yet, he looks cleaner. Like the dust has blown off his shoulders. And when he comes to the precinct it's with no reprimand, no warning — only with a toddler on his arm, come to see her surrogate father.

September and Monday had kept their promise. Days after Monday's return to Conrad they moved into Ven's house — or rather, Monday settled in almost immediately (he did say he was a couchsurfer) while September brought night bag after night bag from his shoebox apartment till he was always there, taking care of Evelyn.

Feeding her raspberries and making macaroni art and playing waddle-tag in between tickle fights and all the things Monday never knew parents could do. (The macaroni art was undeniably fun, Monday made one of some elbow pasta birds playing in linguini grass, a delicious masterpiece even if he did say so himself.) And after Evie had had her bedtime story and the nanny had retired for the night September would curl around him and kiss him everywhere,in that way Monday knows means _Thank you._

They did discuss adoption once or twice, in the moments when Evie dozed in September's arms and the lift of his lips and the half-lidded softness of his eyes made it so, so obvious how he adored this, how he was meant for it. And they got close, to the point they brought it to Ven and he seemed to support it. But by the time they left Monday had drawn the line. Even through the smeary glass and staticky phone line, he could tell how Ven's throat bobbed, how he swallowed his words — and he wouldn't take a child from a parent who wanted her, not again.

So they held the fort, taking Evie through her terrible twos and pulling heartstrings at the plaza and the courts til Ven got out on probation for good behaviour — and now here he is. Two long years later, with his baby on one arm and the _Cafe Time!_ box of donuts Mina ordered in the other, because there's just enough soul in him to concoct a surprise almost worthy of Redmond's standards. He seems at peace with his delivery-boy job.

Especially so when he introduces himself as Kenneth Dockins, with a smile none of the detectives have ever seen before.

And Mina ruins all attempt at professional etiquette to glomp her ex-boss donuts and all, and Paul extracts Evie and gives her to a waiting Monday who's smiling wide and winning because of _course_ he knew all this, and for once September doesn't have a word for his chief (always his chief), and Kenneth seems happier still.

Fortnight isn't all too pleased with his new errand boy. But he knows it's by September's efforts and indeed Kenneth’s testimony that he and Yesterday got amnesty — they had, in fact, secured protection for every mafia defector who wanted to remain on the grid. So he puts up with the old man, even if he's the exact kind of old man Fort hates (bar one old man hiding in his sparrow house). Picking on decorum, insisting on proper SOP like the cafe's procedures weren't already standard enough — who's the boss around here anyway — and still entirely the cop he used to be. Redmond comes by every week or so pretending to want a long black but really looking for his chief, and when he inevitably ends up asking for advice in some roundabout way, Kenneth inevitably proffers it. And Fort rolls his eyes out of his sockets while Yestie shamelessly ogles his favourite officer over the counter, humming as he wipes a mug and very happy to not be worrying about anything.

Dawn Marengo shows up too, from time to time. And it's quite amazing that after Yesterday helped her run the first time, she's right back in Conrad with no more respect for the law than before, selling pics and getting cash money. Monday honestly respects that. The first time they meet officially, he compares her to a cockroach — not as an insult, but an homage to a dear friend who's always been a survivor. Dawn takes it in stride saying that as a millennial, a cockroach is one of the best things she could hope to be. Monday laughs because it's true.

September asks if Dawn's heard from Enn and she hasn't, of course. Neither have Fort or Yestie, nor Paul, despite his continued efforts to track her and her twin sister down. Cafe Time is no longer the place for underhanded dealings and ruined lives — instead it soon becomes the new favourite CPD hangout where they fight over the one donut that Yestie makes with double sugar glaze (he suggested making more, but it's a hard no from Fort — part of the fucking fun's seeing all these cops lose their minds over rock paper scissors anyways). And secretly, all of Cafe Time is glad that with all these blues around it's harder and harder for the past to come catching up to them.

Sometimes Monday hears from Nine — rather, hears about him from Fort while he’s seasoning a cast iron pan in the kitchen and Yestie's off laughing with the pretty clerk after office hours. The kid never really stops talking about him in that uninvested, roundabout, deprecatory way. Sometimes he thinks Fort misses the guy, though he certainly never implies it (not in the Cafe Time kitchen at least. Too many knives). But Monday would be lying if he said he hadn’t tried to find his way back to Asphodel a couple times — not that he ever could. It was along the old desert highways, but the house never showed up on any maps and he couldn’t use up all his leave fumbling around the untravelled grasslands, even if he wanted to. Twelve was right, they did their homework well. Maybe it's for the better, leaving the lonely house and its rabbits and sparrows and two souls to the fog on the dry riverbank. Sometimes Monday gets an unsigned e-card from places nobody's heard of — a non-profit wildlife sanctuary, or a cafe suspended over a gorge, the gift shop on the tallest skyscraper of so-and-so — and he knows he's remembered and missed in turn.

And as for Cobalt, the one who sought the glory of a man who'd lost it all, she's still serving out her sentence in a place where none of that matters. Monday knows September still keeps an eye on her, perhaps out of his disgustingly unflinching sense of duty, perhaps because he's still sore from where she'd crossed him. But in any case, he doesn't talk about her any more. Now she’s just a nameless string of numbers in his phone, (Monday only noticed that Septie’d deleted her by accident — his own phone was out of juice and he needed Jamie to check his email urgently, and Septie had already grunted all the approval he could give at 4AM in the morning, so it really wasn't either of their faults!) and this, Monday decides with more than a little subjectivity, is enough for him.

And as Monday casually doesn't seek Cobalt, September dutifully seeks out Ten. As far as their investigation's concerned she's still part of Tartarus, and even if she isn't, she never sought amnesty so she's still a criminal at large, it doesn't _matter_ how much she helped them, Monday, they can't cut her any slack and they won't. Monday accepts it — Abigail would be insulted otherwise. But September accepts that Monday will become oddly, persistently forgetful about any Ten-related paperwork, that instead he'll spend the time inspecting a little black bean-looking thing between his fingers that he'll occasionally roll around in his mouth and spit back out.

September will remark that it’s gross. And Monday will stick out his tongue, perfectly bare, and smile. Another vanishing trick.

It doesn't matter that September knows Ten — she snuck food to him sometimes, talked to him when he might’ve lost his mind otherwise (jeez, at least she knows how much he talks and thinks like a rock. An endearing rock) — a runner's a runner, and September always follows through with his promise. Monday finds traces of her sometimes, a false credit card or some botched paperwork, and he'll turn _those_ over to September because neither of them can follow that up if they wanted to. Because he was right: Ten made a far more careful mafia operator, she was more meticulous than he could ever be, and she was one of those people who could stay disappeared without inhuman speed to aid her. It'll take a generation to rebuild her power base, though... he'll deal with her then, if she pops up on the radar.

For now he just takes her advice. Kissing September hard enough to suck the soul from his body whenever most inappropriate. Small stuff like that.

And so life went on, and Monday was very glad to let it happen. Civilian life wasn't meant for people like him, and Monday could see why. Everything about it — lazing around on Sundays, listening to guitar instrumentals on his new phone, collecting gachapons, being able to _taste_ his food, walking down the street without a wig or contacts on, just as himself — It was too idyllic. Almost guiltily pleasurable.

But oh, how Monday loved to love it.

  


September had brought something up in passing when they were in the midst of dismantling the bomb in Tartarus. Monday hasn't forgotten, though he doesn't remind September about it. But years pass before September finally invites him over for christmas dinner.

And so here he is, on the snow-covered porch of September's family home. He's in one of his favourite outfits which he's come to call his _every occasion_ wear: a dark blue dress shirt untucked and unbuttoned at the top, and black pants which look like sharp linen but certainly don't feel like it. He calls it _every occasion_ because it works for everything, from the office to in the bedroom especially with _all_ the buttons undone — and that's all September knows of the explanation (because he didn’t let Monday finish before smooching him silent and getting down to business).

But Septie told him to dress festive, so he's also shrugged on _the most hideous Christmas sweater known to Conrad._ Braided red and green, reindeers traipsing along the sleeves with police sirens for noses. The front reads "THIS IS A HO-HO-HOLDUP".

Somehow he's reached the porch earlier than September, and he's standing there with his palms outstretched like he's a gift.

"Charming, no? I love your suburban ways. This is surely the _best_ first impression."

"I should've vetted your outfit. It's like your time in the CPD taught me _nothing."_

September shakes the snow off his boots and clumps up to the porch sourly. He's nervous, Monday can tell. It's amazing how uncomfortable he still looks in a soft maroon jumper with its embroidered strings of fairy lights.

"Remember, no work talk in front of my mom. She'll freak. And please. For the love of god. _Behave._ And —"

 _"Relax,_ dear. Nothing but idle gossip, complimenting the food, and hard-hitting immigration politics from me."

Septie doesn’t say anything. Monday bursts into a grin. "Joking. That was a joke. Nervous, babe?"

That scowl only deepens, which is more than enough a reply in itself.

"Okay, let's just get it over with —"

The doorbell's barely through its first chime when the door's wrenched open. Someone who somehow looks like Septie but not — she's grinning from ear to ear, blonde hair with red roots falling across her face — very obviously waiting for them for a while now.

"Oh, shit, Jules can you —"

"So," the new arrival grins impossibly wider, almost vibrating out of her skin with excitement, "Mr. Blue?"

"Ms. July," grins Monday in return. "Lovely to meet you."

July Redmond, university professor, eyes that could see through you like glass. He'd finished the full dossier from September weeks before, because the chief was _anxious_ as hell and it didn't hurt to read ahead — he's never done anything like this before. But no document could prepare him for how deeply maroon those eyes were, how her chin narrowed to a point and how her smile twitched up higher at one corner than the other just like her brother's.

 _"Damn son!!"_ comes the giddy baritone of second youngest December, and Jules must vacate the doorway completely to accommodate him — even though Sept's notes list him as an orthopaedic surgeon, he's built like a damn powerlifter. This should be terrifying to someone as small as Monday, but it really isn't somehow, with those familiar reddish eyes and gentle silver hair (dyed of course; he will insist later it makes him look wise and doctorly and no one will agree), and the way he laughs like a child when he sees Monday's outfit. "That sweater is _dope."_

"Finally, someone with adequate taste! December, I presume?"

"Dece, please. Y'know, like dessert... diesel... deez _NU —"_

 _"UUUUUTS,"_ comes the muffled bellow from Jules in the doorway, at the same time Septie groans _"NOOOOOO,_ " clearly quickly coming to realise that the person who'll be misbehaving isn't Monday, but literally _everyone else._ Jules and Dece exchange a high five too elaborate not to be rehearsed and it's a wonder what Septie was worried about in the first place.

"Let our guests come in already, you two," comes a faint third voice, utterly deadpan — that must be oldest sister March. Still giggling, the two siblings make way for Monday and then Septie.

"So, my baby brother's boyfriend," Jules is upon Monday immediately, pushing vintage-style glasses further up her nose to peer at him better, _reading_ him where he stands. "Cool cool cool. Oh, you are _cute._ Frankly totally didn't expect him to like, get shacked up with anyone for the next ten years, was kinda teasing he'd die lonely and sad, I mean he was _soooo_ never gonna get over June, you know? so like, — _man, your eyes are such a gorgeous blue_ — did you hook up with him first or was it him who did it?"

"Hmm. Unclear? You could say it was mutual. There was a _lot_ of alcohol involved."

"Hey, don't go all Jules on us, man. You gotta be clearer than that!" Dece leans in all conspiratorial. "I've got fifty bucks riding on this."

Monday smirks. "He kissed first."

"Aw, _shit!"_

"Totally caaaaalled it," grins Jules, holding out her hand to Dece expectantly. "Mkay pay up Dece, fastlike, I know you got your wallet on you —” she elbows Septie as he tries to slip past, “Hey babybro, proud of you, getting wasted like a big boy now? Told you, you should've gone out partying with me way back then, man. You'd've loved it. Like, _loved_ it."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Jules, twenty bucks," March calls from the kitchen.

Septie lets out a longsuffering groan. "What the _fuck_ is going on _this_ time?"

"Oh nothing," replies Jules as innocent as can be, "just betting whether you were like, ruler straight or pasta straight or _straight into a lover's eyes_ straight. So like, March—"

"Hold on, you didn't know?" Monday asks. He's thoroughly enjoying everything. "He didn't say?"

"Oh, dude doesn't tell us anything. We didn't even know you were coming till hours ago. And a name like _Monday?_ Could be anyone, man."

Dece sidles up to September. "So are you like, gay now or what? I don't wanna be rude or anything —"

"Uh, I guess—"

"For the last time, Dece, he's _bisexual,_ we talked about this," March yells from inside the house with all volume and no venom. Evidently neither of the brothers understands the difference and Jules grins wider, clearly relishing this chaos as much as him as she pushes him towards the dining room.

"Hey, let babybro be whatever he wants, bigsis!"

"There are definitions, Jules. Must we all descend into anarchy?"

The bickering follows as they pass the den with a lumpy couch and several worn spots in the carpet, the hallways with its tacky tulip wallpaper, a height chart (Dece wins, Septie close behind) and various assortments of drawings immortalised in picture frames (March is the painter, Jules draws anime, even big-built Dece's a master sketcher and Septie, oh by the stars above, Septie simply can't draw to save his goddamn life, what even _are_ those).

The dining room's kind of a squeeze compared to what he's used to, but another set of utensils has been added to one side of the table — which is itself a weird, oblong shape, and it takes Monday a while to realise it might've been home made.

March’s laying out the last of the utensils, looking him once over from top to bottom and following up with a slight smile. It's as boisterous as she'll get. A lawyer as small as Monday with wits that would make breakfast of a shark. Monday will soon learn her eyes are more expressive than anyone else's if you know what to look for. High ponytail, ramrod straight posture, even in that pink sweater she's calm, cool, collected. But when Sept comes in through the door still discussing _pasta straight_ with Dece, there's no mistaking her gaze hardening for just that fraction of a second.

She comes closer to Monday so she can set out the last of the soup spoons, taking the chance to murmur, just between them, "Are you taking care of him? How is he?"

"He's good. Better." A flash of guilt — even after years, it won't fade. "I don't know how much you know..."

"Not much. Septie keeps work quiet, and he's been even quieter about... all that. Heard some rumours filtering down from the DA's office, but that's it."

She wants to have someone to take down, to avenge her little brother, that much is clear. But she lets it pass.

"Thanks. For helping us take care of him.”

Monday’s throat bobs, just subtly. “He’s doing his best, he really is… I just don’t know if the trauma…”

He’s expecting March’s gaze to harden. Instead, she only smiles.

“You know about his blood phobia?”

“A little too well, I’m afraid.”

“He has a scar across his back from falling from a tree. And another faded one across his knee because he fell running from an angry dog in high school. Countless more, actually.”

Monday blinks.

“And still, he signed up for the academy, got stabbed there, and _still_ signed up to be a detective working closely with firearms and weapons and dangerous events — he might’ve been a little shaken from it, but trust me. He’s too dumb to stay down for long.”

March snorts from some inside joke.

“He’s stubborn. He is _literally,_ and I do not use the hyperbole lightly, the most stubborn person I know. Like a rock.”

Monday can't help but laugh. It's vindication, hearing it from someone else. And undeniably, a relief.

"I promise, I'd take very good care of your stick in the mud."

"Stick in the _what_ now?" Dece cuts in with a mouthful of stolen brownie from the kitchen, Jules close after. "Nuh-uh. You can't be talking about the same guy."

"Really? Aren't all cops a degree of mud-sticky?"

"Oh no, oh hell, _hell naw,"_ Jules balks. "Septie's not a stick in the mud, man, he used to be a goddamn _terror._ An absolute _devil._ Literally a curse to the Redmond name —" March snorts at that, and Jules mock scowls. "Listen, _listen,_ you won’t be laughing if someone replaced your heels with candy replicas for it to rain in the afternoon.”

As if to illustrate, March stands on tiptoe so she can rotate one of the framed paintings — revealing a splotch of seared off wallpaper with a dark patch underneath. "Homemade molotov,” she explains, letting the frame drop back down with a _thwump._ “Those crime movies he binged when he was a kid… man. Mission Impossible decimated this house."

They both turn to make sure Septie's still in the kitchen and out of earshot before Jules goes on, "He's Chief Inspector now, right? Nobody to hold him back and pull rank and stuff?"

March sighs when Monday shakes his head. "So what's he done this time?"

"Foil. Foil on everything," says Monday, his grin growing wider with every new story.

"Ugghhh, you've _tamed_ him, Monday," groans Dece, sidling out of the kitchen licking chocolate-stained fingers. "That's a toddler trick. In high school he was climbing flagpoles, man. Wanted to bring the flag down to half mast when the resident stray cat died."

Jules howls. "Ha. I remember. Sergeant Fluffernutters. Septie spray painted the school field with a bad likeness once."

"And watch out for your coffees," March adds on, "He'll come after those next."

The doorbell rings.

"Oh!" Jules clears her throat. "That'll be mom and dad back from their grocery run—"

"I'M ON IT" Dece charges for the door, and Monday realises for the fiftieth time in that minute that the Redmond siblings are really just overgrown children.

"Dece, gosh, I can get these myself —" too late. Dece charges back into the kitchen laiden with paper bags and a small, petite mother in his wake. Her eyes are the kindest Monday's ever seen, creased in the corners and lit by a smile that glows even brighter when she lays eyes on her children —

and then on him.

She gasps with delight and comes over to hold his hand gently in hers. Her touch is warm and soft. "You must be Monday! I've been so excited to meet you. I even baked brownies and a pie for you, I hope you're fine with cinnamon?"

"Hell yeah pie!" shouts Jules as she retreats into the kitchen, March following suit with a spark in her eyes — from the sounds of it, they're keeping Sept and Dece busy so they can have some privacy.

And Monday — he's speechless, briefly.

"Cinnamon is perfect," he says. Matching her tenderness. "Thank you, Mrs Redmond."

"Oh, you're such a dear. Please, call me Carrie. I'll go set some tea going! And I bet the boys are already halfway through the brownie pan."

She gives him a wink. A spark of Redmond playfulness in her — evident in the last hues of red in her greying hair, the glimmer in her aging eyes. "Don't tell them about the extra pan I keep in the pantry, over the canned soups. Make yourself comfortable, what's ours is yours."

Then, as she heads for the kitchen, "Eric, Septie's Monday is here."

Monday knew September had a good family. That didn't mean he had high expectations, he just didn't know what to expect. So as he walked through the kitchen door he couldn't stop his heart from skipping just a little on his way to meet Dad, his feet and his palms remembering what used to be, years ago...

But here is Papa Redmond. Sleeves rolled carelessly above the elbows, an astonishingly full ginger beard cropped modestly along the jawline, brown-rimmed glasses working up a fog as he sautes a wok of mushrooms.

And when Monday looks at him... nothing happens. No jolt of nerves, no spike of anger, no surge of dangerous joy — the usual course with the previous and only father he knew.

Mr Redmond looks up and smiles a clean, warm smile. And Monday just feels happy to meet him.

"Smells great," he ventures.

"My ma's recipe. Jules and Dece go nuts for it."

Monday realises where Septie learned his matter-of-factness from.

"So... how are you? Septie told me he wanted you to experience something —" he smiles slightly at a muffled crash and Dece howling with laughter from outside, "— something a normal family can offer. Sorry, the kids are a right handful. Maybe not quite what you're looking for."

"What? He's too kind.” Monday smiles back, shy. "And not at all, they've been absolutely lovely. Thank you," he continues, "for having me."

Eric turns the heat off and comes to face Monday. And then suddenly Monday's being pulled into a crushing hug, one hand behind his head and the other wrapped firmly around his shoulders. Warm and tight.

September's father has tears in his eyes as he says, "No, thank you. For protecting and loving my son. I am indebted to you. Anything you want or need. We'll do our best to give. You're part of our family now, okay? And we're so grateful to have you."

When they pull apart, Monday's eyes are shining as well.

"I even bought a little something on impulse earlier... I hope you like it?"

Eric gestures to the plate rack where a just-washed mug sits upturned, blue like a summer's sky.

Perhaps the very blue of Monday's eyes, which widen as he sees it.

He goes to the sink and picks up the mug, turning it over like he isn't sure it's real. It's brighter than his old one, which was always dull in the way melamine tended to be. Heavier, too. More brittle. But curiously, like it would never break.

"My favourite colour," he says, then he grins, like he's about to burst. "How ever did you know?"

"Call it a parent's instinct.”

There's nothing left to do but dish out the food and gather around the dining table, and the humble spread that had been prepared for the Redmond family, turkey and casserole and those mushrooms and the biggest bowl of pumpkin soup Monday has ever seen.

It's at this table Monday learns what 'homecooked' truly means, beyond boxed mac and cheese in Ven's apartment and too-lavish meat cuts by chefs he never knew the names of — it means sloppy cuts and extra cream and everyone fighting over the last baked potato. He also learns why most houses, unlike Tartarus, do not have names, and why families do. 'Redmond' means copper eyes, crooked dimples, and different pitches for the same laugh. It means, in a matter of minutes, going from the price of tilapia at the market to existential philosophy to how flexing excessively after an operation might increase risk of internal bleeding. (Dece calls it 'too swole for surgery', which makes March headdesk so hard a mushroom goes flying.) It's taking hours over dinner and polishing off the washing in half of one, splitting duties like clockwork and only pausing to greet the house lizard as it skitters across the ceiling.

It's Mama Carrie stoking the fireplace as everyone loudly drapes themselves on the sofas, one moment smiling at her rowdy brood like she doesn't know what to do with them, the next laying down a comeback so exquisite the whole room howls, and Monday sees she is everything her children are — mischief, courage, and unshakable belief in all that is just and kind and good.

When couch banter shifts to whether September would look better in a mullet or a manbun, Monday graciously rescues his boyfriend and requests to be brought upstairs (he's cringing, the poor thing — his sisters gave him five pigtails as a kid and he's never recovered). Though Septie's childhood bedroom isn't exactly less embarrassing.

Walls plastered with comic book pages and a Naruto poster, a Garfield nightlight, Sherlock Holmes sheets… Monday's giggling in seconds.

"Septie darling, it's _adorable."_

"Shut up. Mom won't let me throw these," comes the muffled growl as Septie shuts the door behind him and shrugs out of his ugly sweater. Monday's eyes are drawn to the cuts across the skin of his arms — fading, at long last. Septie flops backwards onto the bed and sighs as he makes himself comfortable amongst the sheets and three pillows. The corners of his lips are curved in the faintest and most content of all smiles Monday has seen.

"Well? It's not quite a fancy bedroom, and it's kind of a mess..." Septie snorts out a laugh through his nose. "But what's mine is yours. Even the lame plastic throwing stars I used to hoard when I was littler."

Apparently, from the way Septie's looking at him, there's a space in this room for Monday too — in the crook of Septie's arm, beside him.

"You mean these?" Monday's somehow unearthed Septie's cache of ninja weapons, and as he settles in Septie's arms he's twirling the stars in his fingers like it hasn’t been years since he killed someone above the law. "They're pretty well-balanced, I'm impressed. Where'd you get these — and what is _that??"_

Taking full advantage of Septie's sense of security, Monday reaches over and pulls a loose sheet of paper poking out from under the mattress.

 _"The Untouchables: The Sequel._ Is this what I think it is —?"

September lunges for it with an urgency that Monday's rarely ever seen —

He's on top of Monday, one hand on his wrist, yanking away the paper with its blocky childish handwriting, blushing redder than he's blushed in a long while.

"That's not for reading," he mutters, sliding the crumpled sheet under the mattress where it belongs.

"Oh my dear Septie, I don't need to read it to know what it says! Let me guess... Capone escapes from jail? Nitti comes back from the dead? Ness and Malone share a _passionate_ kiss —"

Monday laughs brightly as September swipes at him.

"I love your room, Septie. From the bottom of my heart."

Well, that's the tiniest fib — the mattress is _horribly_ lumpy and they'll really have to talk about it if there's going to be repeat visits, how did child Septie live like this?! But when Monday leans back in his boyfriend's arms and sees fluorescent star stickers dotting the ceiling, all is forgiven.

"That's Aries," he says, pointing. "I love how you weren't even born in September, you absolute basket case."

That makes Septie laugh into his hair. "This is rich coming from a Monday Blue… so should I start calling you February? Another name to add to the list?"

He nuzzles at Monday's cheek.

"Septie and Feb...tie. See, we make a good pair."

 _"Febtie._ I'm never letting you name our kids."

It's an old joke. They'd both be awful at it. September's embrace is so warm and Monday can feel that _smile_ against him even as he can hear it in his voice — curled up and cozy in the halflight under faintly glowing stars, things really can't get much better.

"... Your mom's kind of like mine."

When September turns to look at Monday his expression is blank, wistful. "Yeah?" says September quietly. "What do you remember of her?"

His arms encircle Monday more tightly — _You're safe, I got you._

"She wasn't around much. I think she was... kept from most of the action. But she was always kind. She loved her daughter, and the rest of us too."

A while passes before September speaks. "I'm glad she was your mom. And I'm sorry she's not around any more."

His voice has gone strange.

"You're with us now," he says, tenderly, "You're family here too."

"That's right," grins Monday into his ear. "I got a new mom, an equally lovely new dad, and _fantastic_ new siblings."

He leans his head on Septie's shoulder.

"I'm the luckiest thief in the world."

September laughs into his hair. "I'm glad you're here, Officer Blue."

_I love you._

"And I'm glad, Officer Red," says Monday, "that you're here with me."

_I love you too._


	42. Chapter 42

It's eleven o'clock and as the snow floats windlessly to the ground outside, the Redmond house is a ball of light.

In this household, eleven o'clock is time to shower, read books, squeeze in a round or five of raucous League of Legends (for Dece) and head for bed. But tonight is Christmas Eve, and the house's inhabitants drift to the living room to await midnight, clad in PJs and dressing gowns and towel turbans.

Mrs Redmond was always one for candles, and with all the ceiling lights off they're dotted everywhere — little cousins of the fireplace gently crackling in the centre of the room. And in the other corner glistens a magnificent Christmas tree, handmade ornaments braided with strings of fairy lights, winding to a golden star at the top.

Only Jules busies herself with the tree, placing last-minute additions at its foot that no doubt involve something handmade in her room a few hours ago. All other eyes are on Monday — his usually tied-back hair loose around his shoulders, his navy blue cotton pyjamas scattered with stars.

He's got his guitar on his knee, rich golden-brown and a little worn at the edges from the dumpster he found it in, but restrung and varnished with the greatest care — _his_ guitar, because wanting something unwanted is rescue, not stealing. Evidently he's been playing for years, the way his fingers move across the strings, the way each note sounds out sharp and clear.

In the minutes ticking to midnight, he plays many tunes — old tunes, classic rock and country blues, as though retrieved from the shelves of dusty vinyls — but he hasn't sung a word, despite uproarious demand. He claims he isn't a singer, he'd much rather open the floor. Strangely easy to believe from someone who's such a showboat, for he plays like he's listening for something.

As the minute hand hits 11 and the guitarist entertains several requests to _play something from the two-thousands please, what are you forty??,_ Monday launches into his last song. It is, indeed, a song that everyone knows.

The opening riff echoes through the corridors.

_What day is it, and in what month?_

_This clock never seemed so alive_

Perhaps it's only fitting that the last song to usher them into Christmas is played by skilled hands, accompanied by a voice to match.

_I can't keep up, and I can't back down,_

_I've been losing so much time_

It's not a Christmas Carol, nor something festive with cheer. Not a song that one typically sings on Christmas, not when it sounds like an ode to lost souls, like a vow, like a love song, like a song meant to be sung since long before time.

The room falls silent for the one person who hasn't sung a word, the one person who now sings like he's been waiting for this the entire night.

_Cause there's you and me, and all of the people_

_With nothing to do, nothing to lose_

September, the Redmond house's resident vocalist, pouring his heart and soul into these words like he's meant for it.

He's smiling, one of those smiles that Monday treasures and loves.

The room _erupts_ with whoops and applause — everyone's been waiting to hear their baby brother sing.

Monday's eyes go so wide he nearly fumbles a note.

His voice is _beautiful._

And his face splits into the giddiest smile as he mouths the words along with the one he loves so much.

_And there's you and me, and of all other people and I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you._

And the way September's looking at him, _god..._ singing at him like the bluest shade of blue to be seen — singing to him like he's the only blue that matters — singing for him with passion and love as red as he's always been, and

his boy stands and crosses the room to settle against him, and his strong tenor reverberates deep in Monday’s core like it belonged there.

_Cause there's you and me, and all of the people_

_With nothing to do, nothing to prove_

And against his back, September might just feel and hear Monday faintly singing on his own — it's not a bad voice at all. Soft, lilting, private. All the more beautiful when it's just for him.

As the song draws to a close, Monday lifts his fingers from the fretboard as every Redmond voice fills the room with gusto — variously tuned and erratically timbred, but sounding _whole_ anyway — drumming the beat with one hand while reaching out for September's hair with the other.

Holding tight.

_And there's you and me, and of all other people_

_And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you._

  


"So, darling, why don't you sing like that when we're at home?"

September's gaze is fixed on Monday's fluffy bedroom slippers.

"He's shy," singsongs Jules. March throws a cushion at her.

Monday nearly doesn't catch the muttered whisper in the noise that bubbles up almost immediately — "B... Because... I wanted it to be a uh, a surprise, so I..."

his maroon gaze flicks up to Monday's, hesitantly, shyly,

"Waited… for the right time."

"HA" bellows Dece. "Time puns."

Monday laughs, everyone else laughs, and as the old clock strikes midnight the Redmonds come alight as bright as the fireplace flame. Dece lunges for the presents with Jules at his heels, as March leans back in her armchair anticipating the howls from the _exceptional_ presents she’s got them, as Mrs Redmond slings an arm across her mister and pulls him across the couch for a smooth, honeyed kiss — and Monday’s mister is the quietest of them all, leaning his head against Monday’s shoulder with one hand curling softly around his. And when the blue-eyed boy looks down to see red eyes fluttering shut, his heart skips because it means September feels _safe,_ the safest in days, months, even years — safe enough in this ball of softness and light and love to slumber in Monday’s arms and rest, at last.

He's sure this is a dream. Warmth around his waist, caressing his cheek, coursing through his veins.

But it's not, it's real.

It's so real.

  


.

.

.

.

.

 

“So I drove for for three straight days without sleep, without proper warm food, and without stopping once… because you felt guilty.”

“I wouldn’t call it _guilty_ guilty, there’s a little bit of shame on the side, and oh! plenty of self loathing for dessert—"

Twelve sighs. “Ivy, this isn’t like you.”

There’s nothing else to do. Twelve turns to leave.

“I feel responsible,” the doctor says abruptly.

She’s tucking dark hair behind her ear, her hazel eyes averted. Twelve turns and waits.

“I mean, I know I was young and stupid back then, and I just wanted to be promoted. And it could’ve been any other baby from the nursery, but he…”

Twelve raises an eyebrow.

“He didn’t deserve it,” she says at last, and the words ache.

“He wasn’t your first snatch, Ivy, you’ve been doing it for years. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“You _know_ why, Twelve.”

Inflectionlessly, “And I have to be implicated, because.”

“Because I know you, Twelve. You're one of the two Hours who can change a guy. Well, now you’re the last one now that Four's dead, good fucking riddance.”

Twelve merely stares at the body in bed and doesn’t reply.

“Please, Twelve. I heard the stories. You know he won’t survive anywhere else, not like this.”

“That’s why Ten shot him,” says Twelve.

“And why I did all I could to save him.”

“Let him die.”

“He didn’t deserve this,” says Five, more forcefully, stepping in front of him.

Twelve’s gaze hardens. “Neither do we. Nobody ever deserves anything, not even as an infant. Least of all us. That has always been the truth about the Hours and that will never change.”

Five’s slight shoulders droop.

“I’m begging you, Twelve.”

“Eleven has a daughter. Go beg him instead.”

“I’m asking _you_ because you're Twelve,” says Five. “You always know what to do.”

Twelve's brow furrows. Five leans close, hopeful.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Please, Hartwell? _Please._ For old time’s sake.”

The body in bed twitches a little at the noise.

A sigh. And with muted breath, “I’m not settling his paperwork.”

Five, unsurprisingly, is ready with a thin manila folder. “Two steps ahead of you, buddy.”

He accepts it with a roll of his eyes, then slips on his glasses and leafs through the documents.

“Thank you, Twelve,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t miss the way Five can finally breathe again, after all these years. “Only this once.”

 

It takes a few hours before Five and her assistants emerge, exhausted. She explains that he’ll be as right as rain given time to rest. Twelve just listens and nods, and is thankful he forgot an old copy of Nietzsche’s work in the glove compartment of his car ages ago.

Twelve watches the body breathe for a while. Then settles down to wait.

 

Days pass.

 

The skinny, underfed body lying in bed finally opens his eyes.

Eyes black like midnight.

“Hey, Steven.” Twelve gives him a gentle smile, and the boy looks like he doesn’t know what to do in response. “Welcome back. I’m here to bring you to your new home.”

The boy’s brow creases. He’s confused.

Twelve puts his book down. “It’s not all that big, but it’s peaceful and surrounded by grass and trees. You’d like it.”

And the boy jerks back when Twelve ruffles his hair, and his lips pull back in a weak snarl — except Twelve keeps his hand fearlessly in place and continues to rub his fingertips against his scalp.

The boy begins to relax, slowly.

“You should’ve let me die,” says the boy. His voice is all throat and no sound.

“Nonsense,” says Twelve. “I’ve saved men who had less. Come on, I’ll bring a wheelchair over. And later we can have hot chocolate and sandwiches.”

He expects an outburst. An angry shout. _Anything_ at all. But the boy does nothing except lie there, staring at nothing, like there’s nothing behind his black eyes. A tear leaks from the corner of his eyes. And another, and another.

Twelve holds back a sigh. Gently, so gently, he shifts onto the bed. Slides an arm under the boy's underweight frame. Helps the limp doll-like body up and into a hug, one hand in his hair and softly stroking.

The boy clings to Twelve’s back with fingers as tight as metal claws.

And cries.

“It’s okay, Steven,” murmurs Twelve, as the boy shudders and heaves against him, the wet patch on his shirt growing with every passing second. “I promise. Everything’s going to be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clock strikes midnight and ticks ever onwards. Thank you so much for joining us on DMY: DREAM CASE! We really appreciate all the support, we could never have imagined that so many people would enjoy our characters and the world we've created.
> 
> It's not over yet! Head over to [@DMYVerse](https://twitter.com/DMYverse) on Twitter to stay updated, and let us know what stories you'd like to see next!


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